Sword, Horn, and Spear
by stick-at-nought shady
Summary: Six years into King Elessar's rule, an unknown former ally of Sauron brings three beings back from the dead: Isildur, Boromir, and Gil-galad. They do not know it, but they have been brought back for a purpose- a purpose that could make or break them, and all of Gondor.
1. Eagles in the Night

**Obviously AU. Six years into King Elessar's reign, evil powers start to stir. Riders cloaked, hooded, and donned entirely in black have been seen by citizens of Gondor, and the soldiers patrolling Minas Tirith. **

**I apologize for the possibly OOC-ness with 'Ithilmir' and 'Galadhmir'. They aren't given a personality, as they're not living in the books, so I made it up a bit. Some stuff might be a little off, my knowledge is a bit rusty. **

**No OCs! The farmer in the beginning is just serving the purpose of being a frightened citizen, and will not be in the other chapters of this fic.**

**This fic will be a multichapter!**

**Some characters use aliases. The aliases of the Three Riders are explained in the bottom author's note!**

**Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing, and for finding out what 'mir' means! **

_**Ithilmir, Anormir, and Galadhmir are not OCs! I repeat, they are canon characters using aliases!**_

* * *

Looking up at the splendor of Minas Tirith, he almost felt as if he was a young soldier of Gondor. He saw guards on the Tower of Ecthelion and looked upon them with a frown that was almost jealous. His eyes were focused on the tallest part of the White City, and they shone with remembrance. His black cloak billowed out behind him, though he sat perfectly still on his mount. His face was in shadow, but there was almost a light radiating off him- the light of loyalty.

There was a scoff from the rider beside him. "If you have a mind to stand there until night has fallen, be my guest. Pray do not place the blame on me when the guards arrest you." The rider was clearly of a poor social standing: his clothes were worn, and his cheeks gaunt with lack of food.

"Nonsense," snapped the black-cloaked man, irritated. "The people-" He quickly shut his mouth before he could say anything else. _Dammit! You are becoming heedless! _he told himself. _This man is naught but a farmer, but he may know you under your real name. He will ask questions, and they will be answered easily enough. You cannot let your identity be known! _

"The people will say, 'Look yonder! It is a Nazgul!'" said the rider truthfully. "Perhaps you should change your garments, Master Anormir."

The man gave the poor rider a haughty look that was hidden by his hood. "My choice of garb is my own, farmer. You would do well not to question it." There was a slight noise of metal ringing as the man drew his sword out of its sheath an inch or so from the hilt.

"No need for weapons! I meant you no offense," said the farmer. "But what do you mean to accomplish, save frightening the guards, by sitting here, looking like one of the Black Riders?"

"I do not know what I mean to accomplish," admitted the man. He let go of the hilt of his sword, and it sang as it fell into its sheath. "I merely wish to gaze upon Minas Tirith. The White City is my heart, and I can feel it beating here."

The two men sat in silence, their horses snuffling and shooing away flies. The evening strove to cling onto its last light, but the sun had slipped, and Minas Tirith became a vaguely off-white blur.

The black-cloaked man sighed. "I suppose I should go now... find some suitable shelter. I thank you, though, for letting me buy supplies from you, and of course, this fine mount, and accompanying me here. I hope I have paid well enough."

"More than well enough!" said the farmer. He shifted his weight on his horse. "May I ask, where did you come upon this sort of money? I mean no offense, but you came to my camp looking like naught but a poor traveller!"

There was a screech in the night, like that of an eagle.

The man with the black hood stiffened, and his right hand reached for his sword again. His eyes glinted in the moonlight with ferocity, and he looked like he could skewer the farmer on his sword and pull him right off his horse.

"I mean no offense!" cried the farmer, repeating himself. "Money is money! I care not!"

"Quiet!" hissed the black-cloaked man. He gripped the reigns of his horse, which whinnied anxiously.

"What is it?" asked the farmer nervously, hunching over as if hoping that lack of height would help his odds of not being seen.

"Naught that concerns you. I thank you for your kindness," said the man. He kicked the side of his horse, and without warning, shot off into the darkness, toward Osgiliath.

Another eagle that sounded much closer to the farmer called out in a low screech.

The farmer was more than a bit shaken. With uncertainty and cautiousness, he proceeded back to his humble dwellings.

That black-hooded man's voice... where had he heard it before?

That pride... that loyalty to Gondor... the farmer recognized it.

_"The White City is my heart, and I can feel it beating here"... _the words reminded him of someone... someone long dead, someone remembered scornfully in Gondor, someone's name that was accompanied with a sign against evil and a shudder of disgust... someone who used to be admired by all...

"You are getting old and addled," the farmer said quietly to himself. "Your elders have always told you they remember those dead constantly. Perhaps you, too, are experiencing this. Anormir was a lost traveller: nothing more. And what of the eagles calling out? They often do so."

As the farmer tethered his horse on the hitching-pole, though, he realized one thing, and he spoke it aloud in puzzlement:

"But eagles do not call out in the night."

* * *

In a glade near Minas Tirith, a fire crackled. Three tall forms sat by it. They all were donned in black, cloak-hoods hiding their faces. They wore black gloves, and the hands in them were positioned near to the fire, warming themselves. They moved, sometimes, to bring bits of meat to their mouth. There was the occasional sound of someone chewing, and sometimes bones flew from the hooded faces as the three folk ate.

"That was quite the pathetic excuse for the call of an eagle, _Anormir_," said one of them, setting the skeleton of a fish carefully beside him. Their voice had an Elvish accent to it, and was smooth yet firm. "You sounded more akin to one of the Nine Nazgul."

"The Nazgul are vanquished,_ Galadhmir_," said a rich, low voice from under another hood, copying the first person's pointed accent of the name. The voice's owner was a man, going by the name of Anormir. "It is not as if they are a threat."

"I must agree, you sounded nothing like an eagle," the third person spoke up. Their voice was rough and a bit hoarse. "And if the two of you quarrel about your choices of alias once more, I shall impale you with my sword. Both of you at once, mind you."

"Oh, we shall cease this bickering, _Ithilmir," _said the smooth voice belonging to Galadhmir, once again emphasizing the name of the one he spoke to. "Or shall I say, _Morgul-mir_? In your position, I would be appalled at the evil ruin of your city."

"Your sword is in the hands of your heir, Ithilmir," added Anormir before Ithilmir could speak up. There was a loud spitting sound, and a mess of fish bone, meat, and saliva flew from under Anormir's hood and into the fire. "I have told you this many times, yet I can understand why you do not accept it. I do not accept it myself, occasionally."

"You _dare_-" growled the rough voice of Ithilmir.

"Of course, that is not all," said the voice of Anormir. "The Ring! It is destroyed, melted in the Fires of Doom, destroyed by one of my old Fellowship. I am rather proud to say that I walked those miles with him, now." Under his hood, his face was wistful and a bit melancholy.

"You are proud of a great many things," grumbled Ithilmir. "Who is taking the first watch?" he asked, directing the conversation away from his his sword and his heir.

"I shall," Galadhmir spoke up. "You two shall have to resort to arguing in your sleep."

There was a dismissive snort from Anormir, and the man got up. He tossed dirt from a small pile next to him onto the fire, snuffing it out quickly. Ithilmir found a space under a tree, and laid under it, seeking to be protected from the relentless wind. Anormir found a spot on the opposite side of the clearing and laid down there, looking as accustomed to the dirt and rocks as if he was sleeping on the most expensive bed in Gondor. The two Men still wore their hoods.

Galadhmir watched this with silent, glittering eyes from under his own hood. He sat on the stump of a tree near the middle of the clearing. Though he was surrounded by insects and trees, he sat proud and erect as if he was having an audience with the King. He turned his eyes to the trees where their three horses were hitched. They were still there, nibbling on the yellowed grass, softly nickering.

A mumble came from Ithilmir's direction: "Tomorrow we ride into the White City."

Galadhmir nodded. "And you would do well to act civilly whilst doing so," he said sternly.

For a minute, all was silent. Galadhmir assumed his two friends had gone to sleep, but then Anormir said quietly, "Do you think the Blue Wizard brought us three back to life for a reason?" His voice sounded troubled. Galadhmir could not believe how hard it was for humans to fall asleep. Anormir stared at the star-speckled sky, arms behind his head. His hood had slipped a bit, showing the pale outline of his face.

"Yes," said Galadhmir. "A wizard does not bring back three beings without expecting a price paid for it."

"Who shall pay?" asked Ithilmir sleepily from under his tree.

"No, Galadhmir," Anormir said, ignoring the other man, "you misunderstood. I meant... both of you, you were leaders of your kind. It only makes sense you would get a new life. I was-"

"A leader of your kind," said Galadhmir in his firmest voice, used to telling Anormir this. "Now, get you to sleep. We have an important day tomorrow."

It was silent again, and then Ithilimir murmured, "I bid you good night, Gil-galad and Boromir son of Denethor." The other Man startled a bit at his name, and then nodded and closed his eyes.

The form on the tree-stump nearly told Ithilmir to be more cautious. The use of real names was not a careful thing to do, and in their situation, carefulness was everything. But he did not sense anyone in the trees, so he said, "And I bid you the same, Isildur son of Elendil."

* * *

King Elessar's brow was furrowed as he read the report from the guards of Minas Tirith's borders. His eyes were narrowed into grey slits, and one hand was raked through his hair in a rather un-Kingly posture. He sat in his smallest study, propping a window open to let in the morning light. "'Smoke rose from near Osgiliath'..." he read aloud softly. "'Screeching noises like that of eagles sounded throughout the forest in an unnerving way'..."

The door flew open behind Aragorn, and he instantly straightened into a noble position. But the one who had entered was one of the few people that cared not of Aragorn's occasional lapse from noble behavior: Faramir of Gondor.

"My King," said the Steward, bowing low. "What is it you have summoned me for?"

"Summoned you?" Aragorn asked, clueless. Then he remembered: after reading the first few sentences of the guards' report, he had sent for Faramir. He had read on, and, immersed in the cryptic words, forgotten. "Ah, yes. The nightly report from the guards. I must admit, its contents are of a great concern." He passed the parchment in his hand to Faramir's.

The Steward took it, and read it swiftly and silently. He looked up with a worried face. "'It sounded as if the Nazgul were riding through the forests'?" he read. "This is impossible, King Elessar. They have been destroyed. You and I know it both." He handed the letter back to his King.

"I do not believe the rider described by the guardsman who wrote this is one of the Nine, of course," said Aragorn. "'Tall, muscular, hooded, cloaked, and donned in black', the guard describes, but he goes on to mention the man rode on a brown steed and not a black one. A Ringwraith, if there is the slightest possibility they live once again, would not have all these characteristics."

"The screeching," said Faramir. His voice was haunted. "The screeching that sounded like eagles... what should we make of this?"

Aragorn's face was troubled. "We wait," he decided. "If the hooded figure does not reveal themselves to us, we shall force them to do so."

The two sat in silence. The only sound was birds signaling that it was morning with their chirping, until one of the guards burst into the room. "King Elessar!" he cried. "There are three riders in black at the gate!"

Aragorn shot up from his seat. "Riders in black?" he asked the nervous guard.

"Yes, King Elessar. Three of them," repeated the guard. He was out of breath, presumably from running through Minas Tirith. "One says he is a relation of yours! Another says he has heard much about you. Another told me to give you this," said the guard. He drew from his pocket a brooch, shaped like a green leaf, its skeleton etched in silver. "He says you would know what that meant."

The King let the brooch drop into his hand. Then he sat down hard in his seat, as if to steady himself. Faramir rushed to Aragorn's side with a concerned look on his face.

The two looked at the brooch with horror, their faces white as the first snow of winter. At last Aragorn voiced both their thoughts:

"It cannot be."

* * *

**Explanation of The Aliases of the Three Riders, Boromir, Isildur, and Gil-galad**

**Anormir: 'Sun jewel'. In my headcanon, Boromir is not one for learning other tongues, and does not have a good grasp of Elvish. He'd know 'Anor', Minas Tirith's first name, and 'mir', the end of his own name. Boromir's alias. **

**Ithilmir: 'Moon jewel'. As Isildur built Minas Ithil (Minas Morgul), I thought it fitting for an alias, and also, 'Isildur' has something to do with the moon. Isildur's alias. **

**Galadhmir: 'Tree jewel'. No, I did not mean for it to be Galadmir, the 'h' is not accidental. Gil-galad's alias.**

***Suffix 'mir'- Meaning jewel. I thought I'd have their aliases end alike to hint that those aren't their real names, and to signify that they're a group.**


	2. Three Unexpected Visitors

**Thank you for your feedback, follows, and favorites! I didn't expect so many. I hope this fic lives up to everyone's expectations.**

**My apologies for labeling Ithilmir, Anormir, and Galadhmir as "the tallest one", "the most muscular one", and "the shortest one" (respectively). As Aragorn (during when he thinks of them under these labels) does not know their real identities, and their faces are hidden, it makes sense he would refer to them mentally as these labels.**

**Once again, thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing! **

**If there's anything confusing in this chapter and the previous chapter, the next chapter will explain a lot, so sit tight, hold onto your seat, and read on! :)**

* * *

Anormir's skin was crawling in anxiety as he stood in front of the gates. He felt tempted to rip off his hood, climb the gate, and announce that he, Boromir, the first-born son of Denethor, was alive. But he knew such a temptation would have to be quenched, and quench it he did, with words that had been spoken to him.

_"Your younger brother, Faramir, is the Steward of Gondor now." _How the words rang in his head! The Blue Wizard had told him those words as he and he companions were being filled in on what happened after their deaths. After hearing this news, Anormir found that his head ached fiercely, and his stomach rolled. It was a familiar sick sensation: one of lust; lust for power.

_Faramir believes you to be dead, _Anormir reminded himself, drumming his fingers nervously on the hilt of his sword._ And Father had perished. Aragorn had to pick a new Steward._

There was a slight throbbing feeling behind his eyes, and he gritted his teeth. _Dammit, of all times to get a headache! _he thought miserably. And then the voice spoke.

_"Your brother does not deserve the Stewardship, does he?" _It was the voice of the Blue Wizard, the one who had brought the three back to life, filling Anormir's mind. _"Would you take his place if given the opportunity? If you are not given such an opportunity, would you take it by force?"_

"No," Anormir hissed under his breath, startled and more than a bit shaken. "I have already fallen for the voice of the Ring. I shall not fall to yours. Do not tempt me with the Stewardship! As the one who brought me back to life, you should know of my weakness for such power. Why do you speak so?"

There was a quiet whispering sound that Anormir could not distinguish, and the voice and headache both vanished.

The sound of a horse walking across stones brought Anormir back to his senses. He looked over to see Isildur, or rather, Ithilmir, bringing his mount closer to his own. Ithilmir's black hood was shadowing his face so much Anormir nearly mistook him for a Nazgul. No doubt, Ithilmir was thinking of the portraits Anormir had described to him: the lovely, carefully illuminated portraits of Isildur in his glory of a victorious battle. Ithilmir had good reason to be nervous: the portraits were excellent likenesses, and the slightest glimpse of his face would be a dead giveaway to his identity.

"Is aught amiss, Anormir?" asked the Man. "You seem uneasy." Anormir could not see under his hood, but he was quite sure Ithilmir had a skeptical expression on his face.

"It matters naught," Anormir heard himself saying quietly. _Damn you a thousand times over, Boromir, that is what you told Aragorn every time he caught you listening to the Ring's voice! Did you not say you would not let that happen again? _"I am merely a bit nervous. After all, my brother sits in the throne room, in the Steward's chair, believing me dead."

Ithilmir nodded, but before he could answer, a guard opened the gates, and Galadhmir, Ithilmir, and Anormir rode their horses into Minas Tirith.

* * *

Aragorn sat on his throne, his crown upon his brow and a noble look on his face, worthy of the throne he sat in. But his face was pale, and his eyes darted about wildly, as if there might be legions of dead Steward-sons marching through Minas Tirith as he sat there.

"A relation?" Faramir asked from the Steward's chair. Ever since the guard informed Aragorn and Faramir of the riders at the gate, the second son of Denethor simply would not be silent. Aragorn recognized this to be nerves. "Who might that be? And one who has heard much about you- that could be anyone." Aragorn simply nodded. "Mayhap some citizen found the brooch, and is seeking to startle us." Aragorn nodded again, too deep in thought to be caught in conversation.

The door opened, and a guard walked in. "The three visitors are here. Shall I let them enter, Sire?" he asked.

Aragorn thought about this. Even if, as Faramir thought, the visitors were posing as others to rile up the King and his Steward, Aragorn had no other plans or duties for the day. It would not waste any of his time to see them.

"Let them enter," Aragorn decided.

The sound of the guard's feet against the floor seemed as loud as the booming of a battering-ram against a stone wall as he walked out of the throne room. Aragorn and Faramir sat in anxious silence in their proper seats.

The doors were pushed open.

As the three figures entered, Faramir gave a bit of a jolt. Then he relaxed. Aragorn knew he was remembering the Nazgul- for indeed, that was the thought that was brought to mind at the sight of the three.

They wore all black, and their hoods concealed their faces. The telltale lines of armor showed under the mens' black tunics. Aragorn was a bit thankful he had commanded everyone to be stripped of weaponry before entering the throne room, for all three men looked strong. Two had more of Aragorn's own build, lean but muscular, and one had such muscular shoulders he seemed broader than the other two. They were all quite tall.

All three of them knelt upon one knee, showing their allegiance to King Elessar._ It is disturbing,_ Aragorn thought, _how I cannot see their most insignificant facial feature..._

"Rise," he said in his most commanding voice. The three did so. They moved like they were close companions to one another, rising together as a group, their hooded faces turning to look at each other. "What are your names, and where do you hail from?" Aragorn asked.

None of them answered for a few seconds. Then, a rough voice said, "I am Ithilmir of Gondor." It came from the tallest of the three hooded figures. Aragorn summed up Ithilmir: he was taller than even Aragorn himself was.

Another voice spoke, a smooth Elvish voice: "I am Galadhmir of..." There was a pause, and Aragorn arched an eyebrow. "...of the West," said Galadhmir simply. Trying to distinguish their features so he could address them by name, Aragorn mentally labeled Galadhmir as 'the shortest one'. He was growing rather suspicious that their names were aliases.

"I am Anormir of Gondor," said the most muscular of the three. His voice was proud, and Aragorn thought that perhaps he recognized it. He swept that thought from his mind with another: their names were most certainly aliases. The three's voices did not sound alike, which brought Aragorn to think these men were not related. There was no reason for their names ending the same that he could think of, other than that the names were aliases.

"Would you be willing, Galadhmir, Ithilmir, and Anormir, to remove your hoods?" asked Aragorn.

"No," said the rough voice. _Which name belongs to him...?_ Aragorn thought. _Ah, yes! The tallest of the three- Ithilmir._ The shortest one, Galadhmir, put a hand on Ithilmir's arm, as if to steady him.

"What my friend means to say," Galadhmir said in the tone of one who is trying to make peace, "is that we would rather leave our hoods up."

Aragorn nodded. There was an uncomfortable uneasy sensation in him, as if someone was watching him. Aragorn's eyes traveled to the most muscular one, Anormir. The two glints of Anormir's eyes stared relentlessly, not at the King, but at Faramir the Steward, from under his hood. "What are your reasons for your descriptions of yourselves?" Aragorn continued. "'One that has heard much of me', 'a relation', and..."

The King brought out the Elven-brooch. "I do not know where you found this, but there are only eight of these existing. Seven are accounted for. The eighth... was accounted for, to my knowledge, but unobtainable. But here it is. I do not suppose you would tell me how you obtained it?" Aragorn inquired.

"That is no business of yours," said Anormir suddenly, ceasing his staring at Faramir.

Aragorn felt taken aback by Anormir's defiance, and a little unnerved. "It is indeed, Anormir of Gondor. Perhaps you do not know to whom you speak." Aragorn drew himself up as tall as he could be when sitting. "I am the King of the land you live in. You shall answer." He turned to Galadhmir, who had been the most civil with him so far. "What is the description that is yours?"

"I have heard much of you, King Elessar," said Galadhmir in a polite voice. "There is no more explanation needed. I have never met you before this, but I have heard much of you."

"That shall suffice. I thank you, Galadhmir," said Aragorn. In the Steward's chair, Faramir shifted uncomfortably. Anormir was staring at him again. "Ithilmir? What of your description?" There was half-and-half chance that Ithilmir's description was the nonverbal one, the one communicated with a token and not words. But, Aragorn suspected, from his defiant, uneasy behavior, that particular description mostly likely belonged to Anormir.

"I am a relation of yours," said Ithilmir. "A distant relation, you might say."

"I see," said Aragorn. "Anormir, how did you obtain this brooch?"

The broad Man -for surely he was a Man, he had no telltale Elvish accent as Galadhmir did- stood tall and proud, but did not speak a word.

Aragorn did not want it to come to such, but he sighed quietly and said firmly, "As the King of Gondor, I command you three to remove your hoods."

There was a group hesitation. The three seemed to be looking at each other uncertainly. Then Galadhmir carefully pulled back his hood with a black-gloved hand. He was clearly an Elf: his face was fair, and he had a light about him. He had pale skin, an enigmatic smile, and a long mane of light brown hair, tied at the nape of his neck.

Aragorn recognized that face dimly- from statues in Rivendell, from expensive portraits in Minas Tirith. _Do not be ridiculous, Aragorn!_ he chided himself. _This Elf is certainly not the one you are thinking of. _But before he could think more on the matter, assured by Galadhmir's gesture, Ithilmir also took off his hood.

King Elessar was so shocked his mouth fell a bit open. He quickly closed it, for he thought the shocked expression very un-Kingly. Ithilmir had a mop of dark hair, sharp grey eyes, light skin, and a proud look about him. He looked oddly like Aragorn himself...

_Now, Aragorn, you are jumping to insane conclusions! You have stared too long at the statues and the paintings, read too many tales... _Aragorn told himself. _Perhaps what you have been told, that all Numenoreans look the same, is correct! This man is clearly of Numenorean descent, but he most certainly is not the Numenorean you are thinking of. He simply resembles him, that is all._

The two black-clad beings stared at him with challenge in their eyes. 'Do you know who we are?' they seemed to be asking him. Aragorn felt his brow furrowing as he stared at the two, trying to figure out for himself.

Faramir's voice brought him out of his thoughts. "Anormir has not removed his hood, King Elessar." Aragorn looked over to the most muscular of the three and saw that, indeed, his hood still shadowed his face.

There was a soft mutter from under Anormir's hood that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

"As your King, Anormir, I command you to remove your hood!" said King Elessar firmly to the Man. To his shock, Anormir turned on his heel and prepared to leave the throne room. The guards flanking the door blocked it, and looked to Aragorn, awaiting further instructions.

"I will not!" said Anormir in an equally sharp voice. He sounded a bit panicked.

"Anormir," said Galadhmir to his companion, "do so, I beg of you." But the Man would not be swayed. He backed away from the guards, and reached to where his belt was, presumably for a sword that was lying outside the doors.

Instead, his hand came out of the folds of his black cloak, holding something that made Aragorn's blood turn to ice: the Horn of Gondor, a line of silver showing where it had been broken and reforged.

"Where did you get this, Anormir?" Aragorn said sharply. He rose from his seat and strode toward the man. "A thief stole into Minas Tirith six nights ago, and this heirloom of the Steward's line was missing after the thief left. We did not succeed in capturing him or her. Was that thief you?"

Aragorn was a yard away from Anormir. He stayed where he was.

"Aye," Anormir muttered. The glints of his eyes looked desperately at Ithilmir and Galadhmir as if expecting them to leap at the King and run out of the throne room, with him in tow. They stayed put, no doubt knowing if they did such a thing it would be their loss.

"Take off your hood, or I shall tell the guards to do so for you, if you are incapable of such an act," said Aragorn. His voice sounded angry even to his own ears. He was furious at this stranger for stealing a precious heirloom of Faramir's family, and for being so insolent.

Anormir hesitated. Before Aragorn could take it, he put the Horn of Gondor at his belt again. Then, he ripped off his hood.

Aragorn thought he had been surprised when Ithilmir had revealed his face. But when Anormir did so, he felt weak at the knees. There was a cry from behind him, from the Steward's chair, and he knew Faramir was just as shocked. For Anormir's face was so familiar: dark hair (though it was a bit longer than it had been when Aragorn had last seen him), a prideful, noble look about him, light skin, and grey eyes that were flashing in anger.

Before he knew what he was even speaking, Aragorn said, "Sorcery!" and took a step backward.

And the proud Man stood at his full height and said, "Yes, it is I, Boromir son of Denethor, former heir to the Stewardship, one of the Nine Walkers of the Fellowship! I have returned!"

* * *

Galadhmir, upon seeing Anormir give his real identity as Boromir, knew all was lost. He and Ithilmir would not be losing anything by revealing their own true identities. The worst that would happen was them accidentally being imprisoned for giving false identity.

"And it is I!" Ithilmir cried, as if thinking the same thing as Galadhmir. "Isildur son of Elendil, former King of Gondor, former bearer of the One Ring of Power!"

Galadhmir felt a small, amused smile come to his lips at King Elessar's stunned expression. He cleared his throat, and spoke also: "And I, Gil-galad, the last Elven-king, one of the leaders of the Last Alliance!"

King Elessar stumbled back. He looked as if he might faint from shock, so Gil-galad quickly strode toward him and put a steadying hand on his arm. The King flinched as if he had been struck by lightening, and stared at Gil-galad in awe, as if he was looking upon a ghost.

"What is this strange sorcery?" King Elessar asked numbly.

"Sorcery is a good word for it!" said Boromir. But he did not elaborate any further. He walked over to the Steward. Faramir, Boromir had called him. He was Boromir's own brother. Gil-galad could tell this not by explanation, but by how, when the three sat around many a fire, talking, on their journey, Boromir's eyes would light up as he spoke of Faramir.

"Brother..." Boromir said quietly to the Steward. He reached out a hand as if to clasp Faramir's. Faramir shot up from his chair, and a broad smile came over Boromir's face; a hopeful, boyish smile. Then Faramir stepped away from his brother. The smile was wiped off Boromir's face. His hand fell to his side, empty, and he looked endlessly disappointed. Gil-galad wondered how Men could stand it, to feel so many terrible emotions.

"This- this cannot..." the Steward stammered. His face was pale and nervous, as if he was seeing a demon in Boromir's place. "You are not-" He cut himself off by sweeping out of the throne room. The guards hastily followed him.

Boromir's face fell yet more. Gil-galad silently thanked the Valar he was not a Man. _They must feel such pain! Must they let it tear at them so much it shows in their features? _he wondered.

"Sorcery?" said King Elessar, seemingly unperturbed at his Steward's absence. He had a dumbfounded look on his face, and his eyes were fixated on Isildur.

"It is a long tale, Aragorn," said Boromir. "If I may ask, do you... do you believe this? Do you know that we are who we say we are... unlike Faramir?" His voice was a bit pained when he spoke his brother's name. _  
_

Gil-galad, hearing that pain, said quietly to Boromir, "Now is not a time for pain. We are in the audience of-"

"We are in the audience of the one who I spoke my dying words to," said Boromir in an equally low voice. "If I was to hide my pain, he would know."

_Strange. Perhaps all Men are different. Isildur certainly hides his pain and fear well. As we charged against Mordor, he was as grim and firm as any Elf, _Gil-galad pondered.

"Aragorn?" asked Boromir.

"I do believe such," King Elessar said finally. His brow was furrowed, and his grey eyes were still fixated on the Man whose heir he was. "I have seen many things... this is one of the strangest, however. Perhaps you three could explain this."

"We shall," Gil-galad spoke up. He looked over at Isildur, who was strangely silent. To Gil-galad's astonishment, Isildur was staring at his heir with an expression that could be called wonder.

King Elessar's attention had turned to Isildur, also. He opened his mouth to say something. Gil-galad looked at him carefully. The King's hands trembled as if he felt an urge to pull the crown of his head and place it on Isildur's. He closed his mouth, seemingly deciding to say naught.

Before anyone could say anything at all, Isildur flinched as if unexpectedly skewered with a sword. His hands flew to his temples, and his face betrayed a bit of pain. "No!" he cried suddenly, "I shall not! The throne belongs to Elessar!"

For a reason unknown to Gil-galad, Boromir turned pale. "Do you hear a voice in your mind?" he asked the son of Elendil. Gil-galad walked toward Isildur, feeling concern in the pit of his stomach. Concern... it was a feeling that he did not expect to feel for Isildur son of Elendil. _What was it Isildur's own father once told me, as we met at Amon Sul? 'By the end of this journey, if any of us survive, we shall be bonded together as a group'? Something like that. Perhaps traveling with others bonds you to them.__  
_

"Yes," Isildur said, his hands dropping. His face showed no more pain. "The voice of the Blue Wizard. He tempted me with the throne of Gondor, telling me the blood of Numenor runs truer in my veins. You heard me deny his words. His voice left my mind after that."

"Why would he say such a thing?" asked Gil-galad, confused. He had heard no such voice in his own mind.

"I do not know," said Boromir. He sounded troubled, "but I have heard his voice also, tempting me with the Stewardship."

"If I may ask, what and who do you speak of?" King Elessar inquired, a perplexed expression on his face.

"I apologize," Boromir said. "The Blue Wizard brought us to life again- but we shall explain that later." There was a strange expression on his face, and his eyes flickered between King Elessar and Isildur, as if he was watching two stags clash antlers. Seconds passed by.

To the surprise of all, Isildur dropped to one knee in a salute to King Elessar. _We were disguised as he did so before, _Gil-galad thought. _Perhaps that is why it is so stunning to watch now._

"My King," Isildur said in a respectful voice.

After a minute of shocked silence from King Elessar, Isildur rose. Gil-galad caught the Man's eye.

Silently he said, _May the Valar bless you, Isildur son of Elendil. You are even stronger than I expected._

There was a commotion outside the doors of the throne room. With a bit of weariness, Gil-galad thought, _Unfortunately, I believe you, I, and Boromir shall need that strength._


	3. Of Watered Liquor

**Thank you for the follows, reviews, favorites, and the time you took to read this! I hope you enjoy this chapter. If you have constructive criticism, something that just irks you about this fic, or kind words, don't hesitate in sharing! :)**

**Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing this chapter! **

**Don't be daunted by the length of this chapter, it explains a lot of stuff. ****All shall be explained... in a bar in Minas Tirith...**

* * *

Faramir rarely raised his voice. He was never one to shout at people, never one to bellow at people to get them to do what he wanted. But now, he was yelling with all his might at the guards, trying to take his confusion and anger out at them.

"Speak naught of these three impostors!" he yelled. His voice was hoarse, and even he himself thought he sounded odd screaming. "Do you understand me?"

The guards were pale, not used to the Steward shouting in such a way. "Yes- yes, Lord Steward!" one of them stammered, sounding terrified. "We underst-"

The throne room doors burst open, and out came four figures- King Elessar, Anormir, Ithilmir, and Galadhmir. They all looked as if they sought a possible enemy, but they only faced the Steward. Faramir felt his eyes narrow in anger when he saw Anormir, the man who claimed he was Boromir. _How dare he! _Faramir thought angrily. _King Elessar may believe them, but I do not! __  
_

"Faramir?" Aragorn said, confused. "Why do you shout?"

"Why should I not?" Faramir asked, too upset to think that he was defying the King. "King Elessar, you must banish them! They are posing as three very honored people. This is punishable by law, is it not?" His hands were shaking slightly, and he clasped them together. He felt the sensation of someone staring at him, and he looked up to see Anormir's grey eyes fixated on him. Faramir felt rather unnerved, and more than a bit disgusted. He did not want this impostor staring at him as if he was the man he claimed to be!

"They do not lie," the King said to his Steward.

"They show no evidence!" Faramir shot back.

"We shall present evidence," said the calm voice of the Elf that claimed to be Gil-galad. "If I may take it from your fine guards, that is, King Elessar," he added with a polite nod of his head.

"Do not permit these impostors to carry weapons!" Faramir said, panicked.

"Peace, Lord Steward," said Galadhmir. "I do not plan to use it." He held out a gloved hand to one of the guards. The guard handed Galadhmir a long spear that was clearly of Elvish make. It had clearly been broken, for there was a patch of metal that looked as if it had not seen as much wear. "Behold!" Galadhmir said. "Aiglos, buried with I, Gil-galad, after my fall by Orodruin, formerly broken, reforged by the Blue Wizard when I came to life again."

The Steward felt a bit of excitement, looking upon the spear. It was something that would have made his younger heart beat faster in appreciation. He had always appreciated Elvish weapons, and this was the finest he had laid eyes upon. The spear was smooth metal, with Elven-runes inscribed in it carefully. Faramir nearly commented on it, but then he remembered that the spear was evidence that the Elf was indeed Gil-galad, brought back to life.

He felt conflicting emotions warring in his brain. The spear had been buried with Gil-galad, that he knew from the legends. The Elf most likely had not taken it from the cairn of Gil-galad, for it was a known custom (though little used due to the Elves' immortality) that funeral cairns, especially those of their kind, were not to be touched. But Gil-galad could not be alive... no, that was beyond the strangest things that Faramir had ever seen... Still, he had a life yet to live, and strange things yet to see. Perhaps it was true, after all...

But no, it could not be. Gil-galad might be alive, Isildur too, and the two claiming their names might actually be them, but Anormir simply could not be Boromir. Boromir had been so proud, so honest, so confident. Anormir was proud and honest, true, but he lacked some of Boromir's confidence. There was a shadow over him somehow, and Faramir could almost see the guilt in him. He saw it when the man had tried to clasp his hand: Anormir's eyes fairly said, 'I feel as if I must make something up to all. I am guilty'. But Boromir had been guilty of something...

"I have no such evidence," Ithilmir said respectfully, "as my sword is in the hands of my heir. I trust he shall wield it with better intentions than I."

Faramir did not need physical evidence from Ithilmir: the last statement told him much. Faramir knew Isildur had taken the One Ring of Power from Sauron himself, and his mind had been twisted by the Ring's voice. Indeed, Isildur's sword had not been used entirely for good intentions. Faramir knew then that Ithilmir was Isildur, and Galadhmir was Gil-galad... but Anormir was a different matter.

"I carry no tangible evidence," said Anormir's low voice, "but if I may speak, perhaps you shall see the truth... little brother." Faramir fought to keep his face expressionless. Boromir had called him little brother, and in that tone of voice, too, that caring tone of voice. "I am indeed Boromir son of Denethor. When you were young, Faramir, you were frightened of darkness. I used to sneak a candle into your room that you could have lit all night, though Father did not approve of lighted candles in our rooms when the moon was out. I would come back to your chambers at morning to see if you had forgotten to hide the candle, but you never did. I always forgot things like that, but you never did."

Faramir's gaze was frozen on Anormir as he spoke. He remembered that... yes, the candles, Faramir's chubby, child's hand clutching the wax sticks Boromir handed him... The soft whispers of his brother's voice, saying "The darkness does not bite, Faramir"...

"When I received the Horn of Gondor when Father deemed me old enough, you became quiet and sad," Anormir recalled. "When I asked you why, you said, 'Are you too old to play with me, then?' I told you, 'Of course not, and I never shall be'." Anormir's voice carried sadness and memory. Faramir felt his eyes widen as he recalled that day. He had indeed asked Boromir that, and Boromir had responded in the same way Anormir said.

"When I left for Imladris," Anormir said, his strong, black-gloved hands clasping together, "you wept. I heard you, as I rode away on my mount. I wanted more than anything to come back and persuade Father to let us both go. But then I thought of peace in Gondor, and I thought you would appreciate that far more than accompanying me."

Faramir tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled sound from the back of his throat. Anormir sounded so much like Boromir... but no, it could not be him...

"If you doubt further," Anormir's voice said, "this may wash that doubt away. One day, years and years ago, a Fellowship sat by the Anduin, debating their course of journey. I sat with them, as I was in this Fellowship. Some of the members of this Fellowship sought to go to the Black Land of Mordor. One sought to go to Minas Tirith. That one was I. But I did not have any good reason for going to the White City with the Fellowship. I was not answering a summons. It was not the destination of our Fellowship's journey. I was not even seeking to go to Minas Tirith to cure my homesickness.

"I sought to bring the One Ring to my city and use it as a weapon against the forces of Sauron. We would emerge victorious, and I would keep the Ring for myself. But it was not my thoughts that produced these ideas- it was the Ring's voice in my mind, speaking to me in such a way I could barely fight.

"Sitting with the Fellowship, I heard only a few words they spoke. Those words were "Gondor", "Ring", and "Minas Tirith", echoing in my mind in such a terrible way. I heard the Ring's voice then, urging me to seize the Ring from its Bearer. I thought of Gondor. I thought of glory. And I knew nothing more, until I lay on the forest floor, weeping harder than I ever have before. The Ringbearer was not in sight, but I saw hobbit-sized footprints, and signs of a struggle. I knew I had done something horrible- and came to the correct conclusion that I had tried to take the Ring.

"There was a sword at my belt then, the sword I took with me when I left Minas Tirith. It was broken not long later. When I fell in battle, Aragorn laid it in my funeral-boat. When I was brought back to life, I was offered a chance to have it reforged. I declined. That sword nearly killed an innocent being. I have the pieces of it back at the camp where Gil-galad, Isildur, and I are dwelling. I never shall use that sword again, but I keep it as a reminder of my folly."

Anormir's eyes were melancholy as he looked at the Steward. "Little brother," he said, "if you do not believe me, I shall not fault you."

But Faramir was thinking naught of disbelieving. His furrowed brow had smoothed out, and his eyes were wide as he looked at the man in front of him. "By the Valar, Boromir," he said, a smile forming on his mouth, "It really is you."

To the astonishment of Gil-galad and Isildur, their companion embraced the Steward with a smile that could have lit up Mordor. "Of course it is, little brother," he said. "I have always told you: I shall never leave you brotherless."

* * *

"Ah, you will enjoy this. The pubs of Minas Tirith leave naught to be desired." Boromir's voice was glad as he walked ahead of the group.

"Save peace, quiet, and a clear head." Gil-galad did not care for drink, and did not care who knew.

"Alas for Elves who do not know good wine when they taste it!" Isildur said.

"Quiet. Do you wish for your identities to be discovered? Or mine, for that matter?" The King's voice was low and cautious.

King Elessar, Gil-galad, Boromir, and Isildur walked down a cramped alley of white stone. Not only the latter three wore all black. King Elessar did also. His reasoning behind this was that it would be suspicious if the King of Gondor was found with three black-clad strangers in a pub. _It does make sense_, Gil-galad supposed. _A King would not normally do such things._ The four of them were headed to one of the small pubs in Minas Tirith, where they could explain everything the King did not know.

"Here we are," Boromir said when they reached a door. "The White Deer. One of my favorite pubs, I might add, before..." He hesitated. "Before I left the city," he finished.

_Before his death, _Gil-galad thought with a touch of commiseration. _Must Men split things into Before and After?_

"Remember," said King Elessar, "you must refer to each other by your aliases, and refer to me as Strider." Boromir smiled at that. Gil-galad did not know why, but he nodded. Boromir pried the door open and held it open for his companions. Nervously, Gil-galad pulled his hood over his face yet more. _I wish my face was not known so widely, _he thought as he stepped into the pub. _If it was not, I could perhaps walk through Minas Tirith without a hood. I think I would like that very much. When my face is shadowed, the world is also shadowed. I would love to see it alight. _

The mere atmosphere of the pub nearly made the Elf cringe. It reeked of alcohol, and the din was as loud as a battle. People laughed and talked so loudly Gil-galad knew why King Elessar had chosen a pub for their explanation. No one would ever hear them, and if they did, they would think them so drunken they were hallucinating.

"Over to this table!" shouted Boromir. He pointed to one of the rare vacant tables at the back of the pub. The four pushed their way through the people. King Elessar tried to avoid hitting people, but Isildur and Boromir plowed through them without the slightest apology. Gil-galad, feeling it necessary to apologize for their actions and his own, muttered, "I apologize, pardon me, excuse my rudeness" as he walked toward the table.

Almost as soon as the four of them sat down, the barman was at their table. "What would you be liking to drink this fine evening, Masters?" he asked.

"Four mugs of liquor," said Boromir.

"Watered liquor," injected Isildur. He turned to Gil-galad and muttered, "I certainly will not be the one whose mind is muddled with drink." He looked more at ease than Gil-galad had ever seen him, despite his careful words. He supposed Isildur was trying to seem inconspicuous.

"Nor I," the Elven-king said quietly back with a slight smile.

"Four mugs of watered liquor it is!" said the barman with a nod. Boromir gave a quiet sigh like a child denied the freedom to partake, which made King Elessar give a bit of a laugh.

The barman left, and the table's occupants fell silent, not knowing what to say or where to start. They sat silently, hoods shadowing their faces so much they could hardly tell each other apart, the dissonant music of laughter and shouts in the background. They did not speak until the barman came back with their drink.

"I thank you," said King Elessar. He handed the barman Gondorian coins and waited for him to leave again. The barman handed Boromir his mug and said something in a conspiratorial way, which made Boromir chuckle. When the barman left, the King spoke. "I have many questions, but I shall ask the simplest first. Who is this Blue Wizard?"

"One of the Istari, of the order of Saruman and Gandalf," Boromir answered, pausing to take a swig from his mug.

"He did not tell us his name," Isildur told King Elessar while Boromir was drinking. "We were told, though, that he claimed the color and the power from the first Blue Wizard. He looks like an elderly man, with blue robes and silver hair."

"I see," said the King. "I do not know of him."

"Few have heard of him, according to he himself," said Isildur. "He lives near to the Sea, at the mouths of the Great Anduin. There he found the boat Boromir's body lay in, and kept it tethered near his humble dwellings until he felt it time to bring him to life again." The son of Elendil sniffed the liquor in his mug and drank a small bit.

"I assume it was Boromir whom he brought to life first," King Elessar said.

"Yes, it was I," Boromir said, taking another long gulp of his drink. "When the Blue Wizard succeeded in doing so, he did the same with Isildur, and then Gil-galad."

"Do not speak our names," Gil-galad urged the Steward's brother. "You never know who may be listening." His Elven eyes scanned the pub, but no one appeared to be keeping watch on their table.

"My apologies," Boromir said. "Perhaps it is for good that the liquor is watered. I seem to be getting drunk on it nonetheless." His smiling eyes glinted under his hood.

Gil-galad looked down at his own mug with obvious distaste. "I do not see how Men can so readily drink this," he said. Isildur laughed one of his rare, genuine laughs. Gil-galad felt a smile coming to his mouth. He still had yet to get used to Isildur not being so grim.

"We are not here to discuss the alcoholic preferences of Elves and Men," said King Elessar, but he had the hint of a smile on his face. "Do you know how he accomplished this- this feat, of bringing three beings back from the dead?"

Gil-galad answered, the smile gone from his face. "We do not know," he said. "Although it is troublesome to think that he has that power at his disposal."

"Indeed," said the King. "And how do you know of the events that have taken place during your time among the dead? For all you knew, Sauron could have taken the Ring, the line of Elendil could be spent, and Gondor conquered by Mordor."

"Anormir told us of what happened up to his fall," Isildur said. "The Blue Wizard told us the rest. I do not know how he obtained this knowledge." Isildur took a drink of the watered liquor, and looked pointedly at Gil-galad, who had no idea why he was doing so. "I must say, if one were to sit in a pub and not drink, one might attract suspicion, would one not?" he said when the Elven-king did nothing.

Gil-galad, figuring out what Isildur was trying to say, took his mug and drank a small gulp of liquor. Despite it being watered down, he shuddered and grimaced as he swallowed. "They would indeed, Ithilmir," Gil-galad agreed a bit hoarsely. There was a chuckle from under Boromir's hood.

"We were told the current state of Gondor," Denethor's son said. "Upon hearing of Ara- that is to say, Strider, and Faramir's places among the people of Gondor, I decided to leave for Minas Tirith. Galadhmir and Ithilmir had a mind to look upon the White City also, so we told the Blue Wizard of our plans. He agreed that we were in fit condition to leave his dwelling. He told us that we must seek an audience with the King and reveal our identities to him. We agreed to do so, and we left the mouths of the Anduin.

"For many long days we rode, stopping in small villages and camping in forests. We hid our faces. We heard whispers that the Nazgul were abroad, and realized we had inspired these rumors. We did not discourage them, for they gave us an identity to hide behind. Not long before we arrived here, our horses were mauled by wolves. We went our separate ways to find new mounts. Finally, a week ago, we reunited near Osgilath.

"I stole into Minas Tirith six days ago, as you said. It was foolish to do so. Camping near the White City but not being able to enter it was maddening to me, and I had not been there for so long. You might say I was homesick. So I found my way into the city, into the throne room, where I found the Horn of Gondor resting, mended, on a stand. I took it and left."

"And it was good you took naught else," Isildur said in the stern tone Gil-galad knew very well from him.

Boromir waved a hand. "Let us not talk more of that," he said. "You both have already reprimanded me for it. The deed is done." Gil-galad privately thought that Boromir needed yet more 'reprimanding', as he called it, if he could merely brush off an act of such thievery.

"And so you ended up here," King Elessar. "For... what purpose, exactly?"

"I do not know," Gil-galad said, "and I expect my companions do not either. Most all of my kin have left Middle-earth. It is known by all that Ithilmir is dead, and if Anormir was known to be alive, Faramir would not be the Steward. There is no place for us here."

Boromir took another swig of liquor. "Perhaps I might tell the people that they were mistaken of my passing. I would, perhaps, settle down somewhere in Minas Tirith. Take a wife, continue my family line."

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow behind his hood. Boromir had said many times that he cared for Gondor and battles far more than courting women and having children.

"If I am alive, I may as well make use of it," the Man pointed out as if he could hear Gil-galad's thoughts. "This is, after all, my second chance. I doubt I shall get another."

"Men," Gil-galad said to himself quietly. "Do you have any more questions presently, Strider?" The name was awkward on his tongue, so informal he nearly apologized for referring to the King of Gondor by it. He took a gulp of his drink.

"In fact, I do," said King Elessar. "Does this Blue Wizard have any plans for you?"

Gil-galad looked over at Boromir and Isildur, and saw that they had turned their heads to look at him, as if trying to see their facial expressions under their hoods. "We do not know," Isildur answered finally. "Perhaps he does. Perhaps not. I should hope not. But he is a mysterious being, an enigma to us all. If he does have a plan for us, he did not state it."

The King nodded. "I thank you three for your explanations," he said. "Do you have any questions? The Blue Wizard could not know everything about the current state of our l-"

"Where is the Ringbearer?" Boromir asked, interrupting King Elessar. "I seek to apologize to him for my... violence against him, and for my folly." _His voice is not the same as it was when he talked of settling down in Minas Tirith,_ Gil-galad noted. _He sounds almost pained, guilty. _The Elven-king tried to remember anything Boromir might be guilty of, and came up with only one thing: striving to take the One Ring from the one who bore it._  
_

"He has gone to the Undying Lands," said King Elessar. His voice had a twinge of regret to it. "I am sorry, Anormir, that he left Middle-earth thinking you a traitor." He looked across the table at Anormir intently, like he was trying to read his thoughts. Gil-galad peered under Anormir's hood too. The Man's eyes were bright, and he nodded without another word and took a hasty drink of liquor.

"Do any other of my kin dwell in these lands?" asked Gil-galad, trying to stop the silence from overtaking them.

"Very few," admitted King Elessar. "My wife, who is the daughter of Elrond the Half-elven; Legolas son of Thranduil of Mirkwood-"

"He has not sailed to Valinor?" asked Boromir, once again interrupting the King, sounding hopeful.

"He has not," King Elessar confirmed.

"That is good, then," Boromir said quietly. "When on our journey... I was not very civil to him, especially when the Ring influenced my thoughts. I should like to apologize."

They sat in silence, until King Elessar said, "There are not many Elves left, Galadhmir, but I hope you shall find a place despite this."

Gil-galad felt a rush of respect for the King, and how he had immediately accepted that he, Isildur, and Boromir were not faking their identities. How he was acting kindly toward them, even leaving behind his throne to don black clothes like a commoner. Gil-galad felt this Man deserved the throne of Gondor. "I thank you," he said with a slight incline of his head. He took a gulp of his liquor and cringed a bit, hoping to the Valar that he would be able to keep his wits about him.

"Do you wish to inquire of anything else?" asked King Elessar.

"No," Boromir said when no one else spoke. "I merely wish to return to camp and try to get a bit of rest." Gil-galad privately agreed. The day had been a strange one, to say the least. He also wanted to speak with his two companions of some things no other ears could hear, things that concerned the powers of the Blue Wizard.

"Your camp in the forest?" asked King Elessar, sounding incredulous. "Surely you cannot stay there, when you could be staying in the White City?"

"But we cannot stay in the White City, Strider," said Isildur. "You have good intentions, but it would create yet more suspicion, and that is the last thing we need. If you permit us to do so, we shall stay in our camp for the night."

"You need not my permission, Ithilmir," said King Elessar. "The three of you may do as you please."

"Thank you, Arag- Strider," Boromir said hastily, draining the last of his liquor in one long swig. "We bid you good night." He stood and began to shove his way through the crowds again. Isildur got up and followed at Boromir's heels. Gil-galad bowed his head to King Elessar respectfully and left after the son of Elendil. He heard the King getting out of his seat behind him, and supposed he was headed his own way from the pub.

When they were in the alley again, Isildur exhaled heavily as if trying to rid himself from the alcohol-tainted air. "Good Valar, Anormir, you must learn to hold your tongue," he said.

The black-cloaked Boromir spread his hands. "I should not place the blame upon me, Ithilmir. It was not I who chose not to water my drink. The barman heard my sigh and took pity on me." Gil-galad could not help but let an exasperated huff of air come from his lips.

"Did either of you see the man that kept looking over at our table?" asked Isildur as they began walking.

"I did not," Boromir said.

"Naturally, you did not," said Gil-galad with a bit of a scoff. "But to your credit, neither did I."

"Rumors will start to spread of us and our unusual circumstance," Isildur told his companions. "We must be ready to deny them."

Boromir halted. "Must we deny them to all?" he asked in a wounded, angry tone that was no doubt brought on by his consumption of liquor. "I have friends among the soldiers of the White City, and I hear Faramir has taken a wife. Must I play the role of some- some commoner, to those who I trust?"

"You must!" Isildur said, sounding a bit angry himself. "If you trust no one, you shall be off much better." Gil-galad stood there a bit helplessly, trying to think of a way to stop their argument.

"Then what keeps me from deserting you and Gil-g-" Boromir started to shoot back, but he was interrupted by Isildur:

"Silence! I do not wish to spar with words."

"Neither do I!" Boromir said loudly. "You speak of trust, Isildur son of Elendil, and it was trust that was the downfall of me! You know nothing of trust!" He sounded positively mad, and very upset. Gil-galad knew that if he did not stop the two Men from fighting, they soon would be sparring with swords.

"Trust was the downfall of you both," the Elf said firmly, stepping between them. He suddenly felt rather short. "Trust in evil, as you did, and you shall fall! Trust in loyalty and goodness, and you shall prosper. By fighting amongst yourselves, you are choosing to trust in evil. You do not mean what you say, Anormir. Ithilmir, do not resort to this childish arguing."

He looked up at the two in turn. "Do not argue," he said. "Excluding King Elessar and the Blue Wizard, we are the only ones that know of our situation. If we must fight, we must fight that which is evil, not our own companions and friends."

Gil-galad realized that he had called Isildur and Boromir his friends. _Ah, Valar, do not let them take offense! _he thought desperately.

"I apologize," Isildur said gruffly. "And I thank you, Galadhmir." Boromir simply nodded and sighed. Gil-galad knew he was not a man of many words, and accepted his unspoken apology.

The Three Riders, as they often called themselves in jest, walked through the streets of Minas Tirith without another impolite word to each other.

_Perhaps the Blue Wizard brought me to life so I could simply play peacemaker for my companions, _Gil-galad thought with a slight, amused smile.


	4. Stains of a Previous Life

**Thank you for the follows, reviews, favorites, and the time you took to read this, and t****hanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing!**

* * *

Isildur ground his teeth. "If I must make a single other eagle noise, I shall slay Anormir as soon as he comes back to camp," he said angrily, turning to Gil-galad. The Elf shifted his weight, as if he was not sure what to say. _And when Gil-galad knows not what to say, we are all doomed! _Isildur thought. "Curse it, where is he?"

Gil-galad sighed. "So you do not slay him, I suppose I must do the honors." It was with a smile that Isildur looked down at Gil-galad, the proud Elven-king, shrieking like an eagle. To his credit, it was very accurate, but that did not stop him from looking rather ridiculous.

The two waited. The fire behind them spat sparks into the air and hissed. Owls hooted above them, and insects buzzed and chirped. But the sound of Boromir walking through the woods was not heard.

"I do hate to suggest this, Ithilmir," said Gil-galad regretfully, "but perhaps we should go find him. Perhaps he is in some kind of trouble."

"Nonsense!" Isildur said frustratedly. "He has just gone and passed out somewhere while collecting water, that is all! There is no need to worry over it!" Isildur did not think much of Boromir's taste for liquor.

Suddenly, there was a quiet voice behind him: "Ithilmir."

Isildur had his sword at ready before he was done turning around. He found himself staring into the face of Faramir, the Steward. Beside him was Boromir's broad form, bearing two large buckets of river water. The son of Elendil sheathed his sword.

"Greetings, Ithilmir, Galadhmir," said Faramir civilly. "I come here with tidings from King Elessar."

"And you would have walked right into the Anduin if I had not found you and led you here," Boromir muttered, setting down the buckets.

"There has been a dark figure sighted roaming very near to here," said Faramir, ignoring his brother. "The figure was not any of you. The King commands you to come to Minas Tirith, for your own protection."

"We can defend ourselves perfectly well, little brother," Boromir said.

"I agree. There are three of us, and only one of them," said Isildur firmly, his pride a bit wounded.

"Be that as it may, the King commands it," Faramir repeated. "There are three of you, yet the mere sight of one of your faces would cause rumors to spread. You must come to Minas Tirith."

Isildur could not deny that he wanted to be in the White City. When he had first set eyes upon it, he thanked the Valar that his heir had restored it to its former glory. And Faramir's point was valid- there would be terrible consequences if they were seen.

"We shall," Gil-galad said. He turned to look at Isildur and Boromir, as if to ask if they agreed. Isildur gave a nod.

"Good," the Steward said. "I shall have to smuggle you there- I cannot take any chances. I have room in my former lodgings from when I lived in Minas Tirith, if you do not mind sleeping in a rather small room."

"It shall be the first room I have slept in for quite a long time," Gil-galad said. "We thank you, and we do not mind in the slightest, Lord Steward." That was Gil-galad: constantly calm and polite. Isildur had gotten very used to the Elf doing all the apologizing for the Three Riders.

As they prepared to leave the camp, Isildur walked to the fire to put it out. A strange thing happened: as he got closer to the fire, suddenly a cold feeling came over him. It was as if he was standing on top of a windy mountain, when in reality, Isildur stood by a blazing fire on a pleasant autumn night. He felt, for a second, as if someone was staring at him. He looked into the surrounding trees, alert. But Isildur saw no one and nothing. His brow furrowed, and he put out the fire. It became yet colder.

Oddly, when he walked away from the trees behind him, the warmth came back.

* * *

Some beings could not stand being out of doors. Gil-galad was not one of those beings. Indeed, the Steward's dwellings were cozy, rich, and actually had beds. But the room in which the Three Riders were staying was, as Faramir stated, 'rather small', and it seemed as if the walls were closing in around them. Gil-galad felt as if he was trapped in the city of stone, which made him rather restless. Still, he forced himself to remain calm, feeling that his notion of being trapped was extremely childish.

Gil-galad settled back against the headboard of his small bed, watching his companions. Isildur seemed asleep, but at random intervals, he kept sitting up and looking around as if trying to spy a possible enemy. _The instincts of Men are better than I assumed,_ Gil-galad thought. He turned his gaze to Boromir. The Steward's brother was awake. His hood was thrown back, showing his open eyes. Occasionally, he would rub his temples as if feeling a headache coming on. Gil-galad supposed that was because of the liquor he had drunk.

Gil-galad got up suddenly, seeking to quench his restlessness in familiar flames. There was a fireplace in the room, with a stack of logs, a piece of flint, a piece of metal, and a poker. Gil-galad laid the logs in the hearth, and struck the flint and metal together. A fire was lit. It brought cheer and snug warmth to the room, and, satisfied, Gil-galad moved to sit back down. As he did so, he heard a voice:

"Put it out."

The voice was Boromir's, and sounded almost sharp. Gil-galad did not know why.

"_Please_ put it out," Boromir repeated. Yes, his voice was very sharp.

"Why?" Gil-galad asked, confused.

"Just put the fire out, Valar damn you," Boromir's voice said edgily.

"Is it too warm? It was rather cold in here before I lit it," Gil-galad said. Momentarily, he could not decide whether to take offense at his words or be concerned. He chose the latter, not seeking to start an argument. "Do you have a fever? Is this some strange mortal side effect of drink?"

Boromir sat up in bed, an angry look on his face. "Put it out," he repeated.

"Why?" Gil-galad asked again, still perplexed by Boromir's odd behavior.

The Man swung his long legs out of his bed and stalked over to the fire. He grabbed the bucket of water beside the hearth, and upturned its contents over the flames. Gil-galad noted his sickened expression as the ashes flew into the air. Boromir coughed, as if choking on them, looking for a second as if he might retch. He sat down heavily on his bed.

"Do you not know, Gil-galad?" Isildur's groggy voice said from his own bed.

"What?" Gil-galad said, feeling a bit as if his mortal companions knew something he did not.

"No," Boromir said quietly. He sounded considerably less angry. "And I do not expect you to know, either." He was silent for a second. "I could scarcely believe it at first, myself." His voice was even quieter, and his face was sad. "After all, who would believe that Denethor son of Ecthelion was the first in the line of Stewards to take his own life?"

Gil-galad felt guilt gnawing at his heart. Perhaps Boromir was grieving for his father. Gil-galad knew grief quite well himself. The Elven-king opened his mouth to apologize, but Boromir went on.

"It was the palantir," Boromir said. "But it was also the fire. The fire he built himself, intending for not only himself, but also Faramir, to burn on. Every night I thank the Valar I was not there to witness it. I thank the Valar that Faramir escaped with his life. But then I think of my father... the seeing stone in his hands... burning... the smell of burning meat filling the air... ashes floating everywhere, but ashes born from human flesh _and_ wood..."

The Elf shuddered slightly. Boromir's voice was haunted and melancholy, and the images Gil-galad saw were enough to curdle water. Boromir looked sick as he turned back to Gil-galad. His face was a bit discolored.

"I apologize. I had no idea, Boromir," Gil-galad said, striving to sound kind._  
_

"And you do not need to," Boromir said. He stared at the fireplace. "You did naught. When I am outside, it does not matter. Inside... it is trapping me, choking me." There was a tremor in his voice. Gil-galad was quite a bit shaken by that.

The smell of a fire filled the room like a poisonous wind, and Gil-galad did not want to imagine what Boromir was thinking about that. The Man was leaning forward, his fingertips at his temples, eyes shut. "I should apologize," Boromir said finally. His voice was hard again. "Perhaps it is the liquor that is making me think about such things. I am sorry, Gil-galad." He laid down on his bed and flipped over so he was lying on his stomach, muttering something under his breath.

The Elf looked at Isildur's bed. The Man was fast asleep, though he clutched the sides of his bed, his face tight and tense. "Father! No, this cannot be!" he cried out in his slumber.

Gil-galad suddenly felt deeply sorry for the all Men and the pain festering within them.

* * *

"Is it a custom of your brother's to constantly wander off?" Isildur grumbled to Faramir. The Steward smiled under his dark hood.

"I suppose you could call it that, Ithilmir," he said. He could scarcely believe that he, Faramir, was actually talking to Isildur son of Elendil. All his life he had learned of the man, and he realized much of what he'd learned was exaggerated. Isildur was not constantly noble and cold. He could act, at times, like any other man.

"He certainly did so quite often on our journey," said Aragorn's voice from under his own hood.

"And as he travelled with us," Gil-galad agreed.

The King, his Steward, Isildur, and Gil-galad, donned in black, walked down the streets of Minas Tirith in search of their hooded friend. They had all been walking together, talking quietly and gazing upon the sights of Minas Tirith. Boromir had been keeping quiet the whole time, but that was to be expected, after all. He was hungover, and rather rattled by a nightmare he had had.

_"You look pale, Boromir," _Faramir had said as his older brother struggled to choke down his breakfast. _"Is aught the matter?"_

Boromir had sighed. _"It is naught, little brother," _he had said in a tired voice. _"Just a nightmare."_ When Faramir had asked Boromir's companions about the matter, they had both looked him over with their wise eyes and said, _"It is best that he tells you himself."_

Boromir was at the back of their little group, and no one had turned around to keep track of him. Suddenly, as they turned a corner, Faramir had noticed his brother's absence. Ever since, they had backtracked their steps, searching for Boromir.

"That answers your question, then," Faramir told Isildur with a smile. Then he thought of something, and a frown came over his face. "He typically wanders off when he is angry, or sad." King Elessar looked startled at that. Faramir knew he was thinking of Boromir's attempt to take to Ring, and how he had wandered off right before it.

"I believe I have found him," said Gil-galad. He pointed with a gloved hand at a man sitting on the side of the street.

Faramir felt like laughing. "No, that cannot be him."

The man had a cluster of small children around him. He was hooded and cloaked in the same way Boromir was, but there was no way he was Faramir's brother. Boromir would never be sitting among children, and... what exactly was he doing?

"And so they all sat 'round," the man said, "and began to speak of many things. Of Moria, of Gondor, of the Last Alliance, and of the One Ring of Power." The man's voice sounded exactly like Boromir's.

Faramir looked closer. The man's black hood had slipped a bit, revealing the outline of a pale face. There was a broad smile on the man's face as he looked at the children. The children had eager smiles on their faces as the man spoke, attentive to his words. "Lord Elrond of Imladris is long gone from Middle-earth, but I can assure you, he was one of the wisest beings known," the man continued, "and he was hosting this Council."

The Steward realized just what this man was speaking of: the Council that had decided the Ringbearer. And it was quite an accurate description of the Council...

"He knew first-hand the events of the Last Alliance, and how Isildur son of Elendil took the Ring from the Dark Lord Sauron, for he was Gil-galad the Elven-king's herald," the man said. "The beings present at the Council listened carefully. When Lord Elrond spoke of Gondor, Boromir son of Denethor felt the need to speak, and told more of the White Land and its valiant battle against Mordor."

The children looked startled at the name of the Steward's elder brother. One of the youngest of them, with a scared look on her face, climbed onto the man's muscled leg and wrapped her arms as far as they could go around him.

"Mordor is vanquished, little one," said the man gently.

"Mama says Boromir was a bad, bad man," said the little girl, not caring about Mordor. "She says that he was mad."

The man fell silent for a second. He had stiffened slightly. "I see," he said. His voice was sad, almost disappointed. "Well, I shall speak no more of my- him." He had corrected himself quickly, but not quickly enough. Faramir knew what he had nearly said: myself.

Before he could alert Boromir's companions of his presence, Aragorn walked forward. "Hello, there!" he said in a gentle way to the children. "What do you tell of, Master...?"

"Anormir," said the man. Yes, he was definitely Boromir. "I speak of the Council that determined the fate of the Ring." The little girl on his leg squeezed him tightly.

"Mama says the Ring was terrible! She says that it made Boromir crazy. Is that true?" she asked Boromir.

Faramir, Gil-galad, King Elessar, Isildur, and Boromir flinched slightly at her seemingly innocent question.

Boromir's voice was tight as he answered her. "Yes," he said quietly, "yes, I suppose it did." He reached up and pulled his hood down a bit further, hiding his face yet more.

Faramir felt like shooing away the children and embracing his brother. He felt like telling him that not everyone remembered him in such terrible ways, he felt like reassuring him. But that was not true. Most everyone in Gondor spoke of Boromir in hushed whispers, speaking of a man that had gone suddenly mad with desire. And for what? A small golden ring. The people of Minas Tirith thought such a thing was dishonorable.

"Do you know any stories of him?" the small girl bravely asked Aragorn. Another child climbed onto Boromir's lap as if seeking shelter from these stories.

"I do indeed," King Elessar said, "but perhaps some in our company would not like hearing them." He exchanged a shadowed glance with his Steward, as if to ask, _will you be all right? _Faramir gave a small nod.

"I do not mind," Boromir said. "I only request that you tell them as they are."

"Very well," Aragorn said. "The most commonly known is a poem. It is quite simple, but I shall recite it:

_'Pale were his eyes, but sometimes dark as coal_

_Boromir of Gondor was warm in body and cold in soul. _

_A soldier brave and loyal to his land_

_Was mad by the time of his last stand._

_Loved by many, hated by more_

_An arrogant creature was this son of Denethor._

_Upon the grasses of Amon Hen he lost his mind_

_Leaving reason, courage, loyalty, and love behind. _

_Attacker of beings smaller than he_

_Did from many great orcs flee. _

_A small gold band was Boromir's Bane_

_And, lusting for it, rightly was he slain. _

_He drifts o'er the Sea and thankfully far away_

_Allowing no stain of his madness in Gondor to stay'-"_

Aragorn was cut off by one of the children bursting into tears. They buried their face into Boromir's long cloak and wept. Faramir had heard the poem many times, and always became quietly angrier with every recitation. He clenched his hands tightly.

"If I may take my leave..." said Boromir quietly. With his strong hands, he lifted the children off him, stood up, and walked off abruptly. His strides rivaled King Elessar's, and soon he was out of sight.

There was a tugging at Faramir's tunic. He looked down to see one of the children. "Can you tell any stories?"

"I am afraid not," he said. "My companions and I must leave now. Good day." Faramir walked off after Boromir. Isildur, King Elessar, and Gil-galad were at his heels.

"I apologize, Faramir," said Aragorn in a low voice. "I did not mean to offend you or your brother."

"I know," Faramir said. "He himself asked for you to tell the poem accurately."

The sound of their footsteps echoed, the only sound in the street for a second. Then Aragorn sighed softly and said, "Thank the Valar he did not hear the rest of it."

Faramir was quite glad for that two. The rest of the poem described how Boromir was an evil madman who had been corrupted by a simple ring, and told that he had 'Shaken the Ringbearer nearly out of his skin' and 'tried to take the Ring and doom all of his kin'. Faramir had a feeling that if he knew the poet who had written such an untrue poem, he would glare at them every time they passed each other on the street.

"I hear something," Gil-galad reported from the back of the group. "Coming from down that alley." The Elven-king stepped ahead of the others and began to lead them down the alley. Faramir walked at the rear of the group with a nervous face as he thought of what his brother was feeling at the moment.

The alley opened up to a small dead end, presumably where citizens could hide themselves in a possible raid of Minas Tirith. The small room was empty, save for one man and a stone bench. Boromir's hood was thrown back like he couldn't care less who saw him. His hands were clasped together so tightly he seemed to be trying to dislocate all his fingers. He paced back and forth, muttering things under his breath that Faramir couldn't hear. When Boromir heard footsteps, he turned around. His eyes were angry slits. Faramir hadn't seen his brother in such a rage for a long time, and it troubled him.

Before he could speak, Aragorn stepped forward. "My friend, I apologize," he said kindly.

"There is no need to," spat Boromir. His hands were trembling in anger. "It is not your fault I heard those words, that I saw that day. I see it every night; there is no need to apologize." He sat down on the bench.

Faramir didn't know what to say. He hadn't been there when Boromir had, as the stories told, 'gone mad'. No one had, save the Ringbearer. Faramir hadn't been there when Boromir spoke his last words. Aragorn had, but Aragorn looked as if he didn't know what to say either.

Surprisingly, it was Isildur who spoke. "Anormir," he said in his usual gruff tone, sitting down next to Boromir. "The people do not know. They think the Ring only controlled those who had a darkness inside of them. They know naught. Perhaps you have forgotten, Anormir, that I, too, fell to the power of the Ring. The people did not know this until only a few years ago. If they knew, doubtless they would have called me mad and arrogant also. But I am not. Nor are you."

Boromir's white-knuckled grasp on his hands loosened a bit. "I thank you, Isil- Ithilmir," he said, quickly correcting himself. He still looked furious, but he put his hood up again. He said naught more.

Faramir suddenly felt as if he did not know his own brother. The Boromir he knew would not sit and tell stories to children, and he most certainly not be so quiet. Perhaps he had changed during his time among the dead, or perhaps he had been a changed man ever since he set out on his quest with the Fellowship.

Boromir seemed to think he was acting oddly also. "I have no idea what is the matter with me," he said in a frustrated tone. "I hear a voice in my mind, reminding me of things I normally would not dwell on. It sounds almost like the R-"

"Silence!" Faramir said suddenly, turning around as he heard footsteps "We have company." A terrified-looking woman, cradling a baby, was running down the alley, right at them. She looked quite shocked to see them.

"Are you in league with him? Or are you hiding from him, too?" she asked, her voice desperate.

"Hiding from whom?" Faramir asked her.

"I do not know, but he wears blue robes, and carries a shining staff. He has done something terrible to the guards at the gate," she said nervously. "They all lay on the ground, not a trace of a wound on them, but they all seem dead. He demands an audience with the King."

Faramir saw Aragorn exchange a glance with the Three Riders. Gil-galad murmured something quietly in Elvish. Isildur and Boromir looked at each other anxiously. Then Isildur spoke:

"The Blue Wizard."


	5. Doors Broken and Entered

**I keep repeating myself, but it's true: I'm so grateful for the favorites, reviews, follows, and your time!**

**No, I don't know the proper healing procedures for a dislocated arm. Yes, it's very evident in this chapter.**

**Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing!**

* * *

Aragorn was struggling to keep a calm face as he strode quickly to the Citadel. Footsteps and the quiet sound of Gil-galad apologizing when he ran into someone signaled that Faramir and the Three Riders were following him.

_This whole thing is a mess, _Aragorn thought. _A Blue Wizard, a dozen dead guardsmen, and three beings back from the dead! Who would have ever thought? _Aragorn said to himself. He kept a tight grip on his hood as he walked: it was being blown back by the wind. He felt certain that if the citizens of Minas Tirith, who all seemed to be fleeing to the highest level of the city, knew that the King and the Steward were not in the throne room, there would be panic.

_More than there is already! _the King couldn't help but think as he walked through the crowds of running citizens. The people were making their way up the city, fleeing the lowest level. Cries of desperation and shouts echoed through the streets.

After Isildur had uttered the Blue Wizard's name, the woman had looked even more frightened. _"A Wizard? Valar save us!" _she had cried. Aragorn, feeling sympathetic, had calmed her down enough for her to give them more information. _"He asks for an audience with the King, and he asks for three people to show themselves! But the people are long dead, and one of the guards told him so. That guard lies dead now. Valar save us!" _she'd wailed again, clutching her baby to her chest. _"He is in the city! He asks to speak with Isildur son of Elendil, Boromir son of Denethor, and Gil-galad the Elven-king!"_

The Three Riders, the King, and the Steward had thought about that for a second. Then, as if moving with one mind, they had bolted from the room at the end of the alley and ran out into the streets.

"Galadhmir!" snapped Boromir's angry voice from behind Aragorn. "This is no time for dawdling!" His words caused Aragorn to turn around. He found Boromir glaring at Gil-galad, who was helping an elderly woman to her feet. Aragorn, normally one to feel commiseration for defenseless people, was a bit too on edge to do so.

"We must get to the Citadel, Galadhmir!" Aragorn agreed. Gil-galad straightened up calmly and began walking again.

"I apologize, Strider," he said in his usual polite way. His voice was worried, though.

The five of them kept walking quickly to the Citadel, their feet smacking loudly against the stone. Aragorn felt his hand instinctively grasp Anduril, and he silently prayed to the Valar that he would not have to use his sword. Behind him, he heard the sound of Boromir muttering under his breath nervously. Aragorn had not felt this nervous since he was at the Black Gate. If the Blue Wizard had slain the gate-guards, then surely he did not mean well, seeking for an audience with the King.

Finally, they made it to the Citadel. Aragorn, hearing shouts behind him, quickened his pace yet more. "Faramir!" he said to his Steward quietly. "Take the three of them to your old lodgings. Dress in the finery of the Steward, so you will not be conspicuous, and offer them clothes, so they may blend in, in case they must flee. When you are done doing that, come to the throne room as quickly as possible."

"Yes, my King," Faramir's anxious voice said. "Should the Three Riders come to the throne room, also?"

"No," Aragorn said automatically. He did not trust this Blue Wizard, though he had brought the three back to life. Aragorn did not trust him in the slightest, and wished to keep Isildur, Boromir, and Gil-galad safe. But he also wished to not create any more trouble with this Wizard. His head spun in confusion as he half-walked, half-ran to his chambers.

* * *

"Valar, Faramir, you know I hate wearing such clothes!" Boromir growled, staring with distaste at the finely made tunic and breeches before him. "I feel like- like some noble-born child, all dressed for a feast!" His nerves made him angry, and he found himself snapping at everyone, even his own friends and brother.

"I apologize sincerely, Boromir," said Faramir solemnly as he donned his own clothes. Boromir felt a twinge of guilt for snapping at his brother, who was just as nervous as he. Faramir's eyes darted nervously about the room, and he kept clenching and un-clenching his hands. _At least he deals with nerves been than I, _Boromir thought ruefully.

"I, on the other hand, thank you for providing garb, Lord Steward," said Gil-galad's dignified voice. "I wish you good luck." Faramir acknowledged this with a quick nod, and swiftly strode from his chambers, presumably heading to the throne room.

With a reluctant sigh, Boromir donned his borrowed clothes, feeling an uncomfortable prickling in his head. _"Do you remember when you last wore such clothes, Boromir?" _the Blue Wizard's smooth voice asked in his mind. _"When you sat in Elrond the Half-elven's Council, gazing upon the One Ring." _

Boromir, who had been hearing the voice all day, was pushed to the end of his rope. He let go of the collar of his tunic, which he had been straightening, slammed a hand into Faramir's wooden nightstand, and bellowed, "Valar damn you, cease this!" An unwilling image of the Ring had crept into his mind. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to smack something else.

"Boromir?" asked Isildur's voice. Boromir opened his eyes.

"It is naught," he said. "I keep hearing the Blue Wizard's voice. He reminds me about the Ring. It has become quite maddening."

Gil-galad strode over to his companion. His footsteps were much louder than normal, for the Elf usually wore light shoes. He was clad in Faramir's old clothes, and his clunky black boots. He looked rather odd in them. "I still cannot understand why the two of you hear his voice," Gil-galad said, sounding confused. "I never have heard it in my mind."

"Fortunate for you, then," Boromir said angrily. He kicked the stone wall angrily with one metal-toed boot. A portrait fell off the wall, and its frame shattered as it hit the floor. "Valar damn it-" Boromir started, already feeling guilty for destroying one of Faramir's possessions.

"It seems the Valar are doing more than their fair share of damning lately," said Isildur with a slight smirk. "What is amiss, Boromir?" He looked every bit a King of Men in the fine clothes he wore.

"I keep getting these thoughts... I keep thinking to myself, 'What if you were Gondor's Steward?' I keep wondering that. And I also think, 'What if you could go back to your old life here?' These thoughts are nearly tearing me apart," said Boromir. He was again reminded of the Ring's seductive voice in his mind, and how it had succeeded in tearing him apart. He shuddered and sat down hard on a chair, the fabric of his tunic uncomfortably tight at his broad shoulders.

"I cannot fathom why the Blue Wizard is prompting such thoughts," Isildur pondered aloud. "This does not bode well for any of us."

"And right now all the good it is doing is making me so tense I am practically snapped in half," Boromir said with a sigh. He ached to bring his fingernails to his mouth, for that was one of his nervous habits, childish though nail-biting was. "I cannot stand the thought of my brother, helpless, out there."

"I have half a mind to go to the throne room," Gil-galad said. Boromir looked over at him, quite surprised that the calm, sensible Elven-king had suggested such a thing. Gil-galad's familiar half-smile was on his face as he said, "I only mean that perhaps our presence would help things run smoothly for King Elessar."

Before Boromir could reason through this, there was a din outside the door. Half-nervous for the sake of Faramir and Aragorn and half-excited at the prospect of battle, he shot up from his chair and drew his sword, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he tried to discern words from the various shouting noises. As he looked sideways at Isildur and Gil-galad, he saw they held their weapons, also.

The noises soon became unbearable. They were terribly loud, but that was not the reason that Boromir had to set his jaw to keep from cringing at them. No- he heard the sounds of two voices he knew very well. Aragorn and Faramir were out there, and they were fighting someone. Cries of pain and battle-cries were sounding from outside the door.

Boromir couldn't stand to bear witness any longer. He crept to the door. It was bolted shut from the inside. He could undo the bolt and easily run out there to aid his King and his brother. But as he reached for the bolt, he heard a shout from behind him.

"Boromir! Get back here!" Isildur said loudly and frantically. There was a creaking sound over Boromir's head. He did not mark it, but he turned around to face his friend, annoyed.

"I-" he started, turning his head back to Gil-galad and Isildur.

Suddenly, something tall, plank-like, and wooden hit Boromir from behind, sending him crashing to the floor. His head spun as he struggled to get up, and he fell limp to the stone ground.

The last thing Boromir thought before he lost consciousness was that him turning around had most likely stopped the door's bolt from putting his eyes out.

* * *

"This is not the room you are searching for!" Aragorn lied as he strove to block the threshold of Faramir's old rooms. The wooden doors had fallen, but Aragorn knew he must not give up in his attempt to rescue the Three Riders. Something heavy hit Aragorn in the chest, and he staggered backward onto the mess of the broken doors.

There was a loud groan from underneath him, and Aragorn saw a familiar hand poking out from under the broken door: a light-skinned, strong hand, with the nails bitten down to stubs.

"Boromir?" he asked quietly. He could hear Faramir fighting the Blue Wizard, buying Aragorn some time to get on his feet. The King did so, his chest aching with every breath.

He turned around, expecting to find Gil-galad and Isildur standing there. But they were not. They had hidden, most likely. Aragorn sighed in relief and quietly thanked the Valar, but there was a cry of pain from Faramir, and Aragorn's short time to rest was over.

The Blue Wizard had not looked like a threat at all. He was a skinny, elderly man with blue robes that hung off his frame, carrying a tall staff. But when Aragorn refused to show him the Three Riders, he had showed his strength. Aragorn was slammed against his own throne by an invisible force until his head pounded. When asked to show the Three Riders, he ran off to Faramir's old room, hoping that, once they were there, he could hold off the Wizard.

He could not.

Before Aragorn could swing his sword even once, he felt Blue Wizard's staff of power digging into his stomach. _By the Valar, why did I not wear armor?_ Aragorn thought miserably. He jabbed out with Anduril, but the Blue Wizard was too far away, and he was not about to throw his beloved sword.

"Yield now," the Blue Wizard's voice said. Aragorn remembered his first thoughts of it- he had thought of the Ring's voice, and for some reason, Gil-galad's voice. During the time Aragorn had heard the Ring whispering in his mind, he had always been struck about how low and smooth its voice was. He supposed that was why he thought of Gil-galad. The Elven-king had a dignified, calm voice, but, unlike the Blue Wizard, it was never contemptuous.

Aragorn, not trusting his voice, shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Faramir struggling to his feet. He shook his head at his Steward, signaling for him to remain still. Faramir's eyes were wide with fear, but he stayed still.

The Blue Wizard cared not, though, of Aragorn's stubbornness. He shoved the King of Gondor to the ground with his staff and strode into Faramir's old chambers. Aragorn scrambled to his feet and stumbled after the Wizard, trying, in vain, to stop him. The Wizard stopped himself, though. He moved the fallen double doors off to the sides.

Boromir lay there, clearly unconscious. He was sprawled out as if he had been squashed flat by the door. One of his muscular arms had been jolted out of its socket. Though Aragorn was used to such sights, he was reminded of the time when Boromir had lain dead upon the ground, and he cringed slightly.

"Arise," the Blue Wizard told Boromir. Aragorn moved instinctively, and strove to attack the Wizard while he was distracted. But the Blue Wizard moved his staff quickly, and blocked Aragorn's strike so forcefully that Anduril nearly flew from his hands. Aragorn held on to the hilt of his sword firmly, prepared to strike again.

"I mean no harm to your friend," said the Blue Wizard. Aragorn doubted this very much. "Unless, of course, you stand in my way." Aragorn knew the power of the Istari, and did not wish to anger one of them yet more. So he merely crouched beside Boromir, leaning over him, and watched.

The Blue Wizard's staff tapped Boromir's dislocated arm, and Aragorn made a small noise of disgust. But the Wizard had succeeded in bringing Boromir back to consciousness. Boromir's eyes flew open, and he woke with a cry of pain.

"Aragorn?" His voice was raspy and pained. His gaze fell on his own injured arm, and he closed his eyes for a second. "What-"

"Do not sit up," Aragorn said. He did not see a bump on Boromir's head that would have betrayed the fact he had a concussion, but he was still worried about his friend's possible internal injuries. "Are you able to put your arm in place?" His healer's instincts were kicking in.

Boromir shook his head. "Are you?" he asked wearily. Aragorn nodded. Keeping one eye on the Blue Wizard, he placed his hands on Boromir's dislocated arm. A hiss of pain came out from between Boromir's clenched teeth.

Feeling a bit guilty at the thought he was causing Boromir such pain, Aragorn could not help but ask, "Are you sure?" Boromir responded with a quick nod. He closed his eyes. Before he could change his mind, Aragorn grabbed Boromir's upper arm and wrenched it upward roughly. It was a mildly bad dislocation, and though he knew he still had the Blue Wizard to deal with, Aragorn could not help but wish for a club to knock Boromir unconscious so he would not feel it go back into place.

There was a sickening popping sound, and Boromir flinched so terribly one of his feet flew out and kicked Aragorn in the leg. The fabric of his tunic had ripped, he was breathing heavily, but Boromir's arm was back in place.

Unfortunately, the Blue Wizard chose that time to reveal his presence. Aragorn tried to keep Boromir on the ground, but the Steward's brother sprang to his feet, looked around, grabbed his sword, and pointed it at the Blue Wizard's throat. Boromir had such a look of hatred on his face that Aragorn himself was surprised by it. "You traitorous, disloyal, turncoat bastard," Boromir snarled. His eyes were smoldering with ire. "Playing the kindly old Wizard around Isildur, Gil-galad, and I, then revealing your true colors and trying to slay the King and the Steward?"

At the mention of the Steward, Faramir finally spoke up. "Boromir, stand down!" he said sharply from behind Aragorn. His voice was drawn tightly, but the King did not turn around. Boromir would not listen to his brother's reason. His hands were trembling with rage, and his sword shook.

"Not until he is dead and the carrion-crows are feasting on him!" Boromir's voice was so angry it was hardly his. Aragorn was astonished.

"Boromir, you are only worsening the situation," Aragorn said. "For your sake and ours, as your King, I order you to calm down!" The Blue Wizard glared up at Boromir with equal hatred, and the King feared for his friend.

"Worsening the situation!" Boromir repeated, but he sounded considerably calmer, though he breathed heavily and his eyes were still fiery. "How can it be worse?" There was almost a sob in his voice, and Aragorn startled at that. He had never seen Boromir weep before, and most certainly did not wish to. "If you had not ordered me to calm myself I would cut off the Wizard's head!" But Boromir lowered his sword- no, he was not lowering it, but instead he was pointing it...

"Turn around, Aragorn!" he snapped, rage flickering on his face like a burning candle. "Then perhaps you will see I am not mad for saying such things!" Dreading what he would see, Aragorn pivoted around. His eyes widened, and he inhaled sharply in shock.

Faramir stood in the hallway that led to the room, his right hand clutching his left. Blood trickled from between his fingers, and his face was distorted in pain. Aragorn could not see where the blood was coming from. Faramir's eyes looked down disbelievingly at his hands. The left one was hidden, but when Faramir saw the eyes on him, he shifted his right hand away from his left, so that the two hands were not touching.

Faramir's ring finger and little finger were still in his right hand.

His left hand was mauled, and the open flesh where his fingers should have been oozed blood at a lazy rate. The Steward's teeth were gritted, and his eyes were bright with the pain. Aragorn felt the color drain from his face. Suddenly he felt like driving his sword through the neck of the one who had inflicted such an injury.

A terrible, smug, wicked smile was on the Blue Wizard's face.


	6. Gondor, Where Their Loyalties Lie

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* * *

"Boromir does not shout any longer," noted Gil-galad quietly, turning in the darkness to face Isildur.

"Has he fallen?" was the son of Elendil's anxious reply.

Gil-galad backed away from the wardrobe door exasperatedly. "By the Valar, how should I know? All I know is that he was shouting at someone, and then the sound ceased. There is a quiet whispering now that I cannot make out. Patience, Isildur."

A noisy sigh came from the floor of the wardrobe. "Sit down, Gil-galad," Isildur said. "If the floor keeps creaking, we will be discovered by your moving about." Gil-galad sat down on the floor. Long tunics and fine clothes that hung from the sides of the wardrobe threatened to smother him, but he did not move. He started to prop his spear, Aiglos, on the wall beside him. There was a soft curse from Isildur as the spear was propped against him. Gil-galad muttered an apology and moved his weapon.

"Perhaps we should go aid them," suggested Isildur. Patience had never been his strong suit. In spite of himself, Gil-galad felt a part of him agreeing. He quickly squandered that agreement, though.

"That is what Boromir might have been thinking," Gil-galad said, "before the doors fell on him." Isildur sighed again.

Suddenly a shout came from outside the wardrobe in which they were hidden- Boromir's familiar voice shouting, "I will hear naught of your demands until I have tended to my brother!" He sounded furious, but also pained.

Gil-galad forgot Isildur's words and leapt up from the ground, his borrowed boots thunking against the stone. "The Steward is injured," he said to Isildur.

"I have not the ears of an Elf, but I have ears all the same," Isildur grumbled from the floor. "We must aid them, Gil-galad, and Valar take your sensibility."

"If the Blue Wizard has injured the Steward, do you really believe he will not injure you?" Gil-galad reasoned. He felt just as on edge as Isildur appeared to be, though.

"I do not," Isildur said in a dignified way, "but I shall endeavor to avoid injury. Our friend, his brother, and my heir are out there. We must protect them from any harm." Gil-galad could not, to the best of his ability, dispute this. The Elf sighed quietly. He heard the quiet voice again, the one he could not decipher words from.

"On my mark," the Elven-king whispered. Isildur got to his feet, and Gil-galad readied Aiglos. "Now!" Gil-galad hissed, and the two of them flung open the wardrobe doors.

"Elendil! Elendil!" Isildur cried as he broke through the wooden doors. Gil-galad took up the battle-cry, and the two found themselves facing a disturbingly panicked-looking King Elessar. Gil-galad whirled around to face the threshold, where the entry doors had fallen upon Boromir, and before he could stop himself, an Elvish curse flew from his mouth. His spear arm slackened in shock.

Faramir, the Steward, was slumped against the wall, blood oozing from his left hand, or what was left of it, for his ring and little fingers had been brutally hacked off. His face was dumbfounded as he stared at the injury. Two small, bloodied objects lay beside him, and Gil-galad felt slightly ill as he realized what they were.

The Blue Wizard's familiar figure stood as tall as he could -slightly shorter than Gil-galad himself- which did not look like much next to the tall Men that surrounded him. There was a cruel smile on his thin lips, and every bit of his old face expressed self-satisfaction. He had a knife in his right hand, his staff in his left. His long, dark blue robes were stained at the sleeves with crimson blood. He turned to face the two that had just burst from the wardrobe. His eyes were cold and scrutinizing. Gil-galad tried to keep his features impassible, but he noticed that the Wizard's knife was bloodied. He felt some of the blood drain from his face.

Boromir stood with his sword, in a position that would enable him to decapitate the Blue Wizard. There was unspeakable rage on his face, but also unspeakable grief. Though he looked ready to slay the Wizard, Boromir's eyes were fixated on his brother. To Gil-galad's shock, they sparkled with unshed tears._  
_

King Elessar stood near to Boromir which a shocked expression on his face. His knuckles were white on the hilt of Anduril, and he too stared at the Steward with grief, as if Faramir was dead. The King had no bleeding cuts, but a bruise was forming on his jaw. He looked as if he was mentally trying to calm himself.

"What a pleasure," said the Blue Wizard. Gil-galad felt annoyance prick at him as the Wizard's smooth voice sounded. "You see, Elessar? They shall reveal themselves. They are a willing group."

Boromir turned his head to face Gil-galad and Isildur. There was a trembling rage within his gaze, and it was as if he had shouted, 'I care not of avoiding conflict, I could kill the Wizard at this moment for maiming my brother, and I would do so gladly!' His gaze also was reproachful, as if he was telling them, in the low voice he used when he was attempting to not be loud, 'You should have stayed hidden'. Gil-galad stared helplessly back, not sure what to say or what to convey in his features that might reassure Boromir.

"They are loyal to one another," King Elessar said steadily.

"To a fault," said the Blue Wizard. Next to Gil-galad, Isildur quietly scoffed. "I must admit, the three of you have surprised me. I did not label you as someone who lusts for blood, Boromir, but I must do that now."

Gil-galad quickly took a step forward, and the Blue Wizard's eyes fell on him. He ignored the Wizard and walked over to Boromir. As he got closer, Gil-galad saw that Boromir was trembling from head to toe in a combination of ire and worry. Gil-galad felt pity wash over him, and he laid a calming hand on Boromir's sword arm. Boromir's slitted eyes darted over to look at him, and his expression softened. His eyes were still panicked.

"You repeat yourself," said the Elf calmly. "You call us loyal. That is true. You say that Boromir lusts for blood. That is not true. He lusts for the blood of anyone who dares harm his brother, which I would label as loyalty." He eyed the Blue Wizard sharply, gripping Aiglos in case his spear was needed.

"Indeed," Isildur said, stepping next to Gil-galad. "Gil-galad is correct, and Boromir is also. We shall not listen to what you have to say until the Steward is tended to." Relief came over Boromir's face.

"Very well, then," said the Blue Wizard. "Perhaps you are right, Gil-galad. But do remember: loyalty overrides reason. If you do not believe me, ask Boromir. He would know all about that matter." Boromir looked as if he could slay the Blue Wizard right there and then, but instead, he sheathed his sword and hurried over to the Steward.

"Boromir," managed Faramir. His chest heaved with held-back pain, and tears of distress fell down his cheeks. The Steward dared not swipe them off, with his sound hand or his ruined hand.

"I am here, little brother," said Boromir. His voice shook. Gil-galad clasped his hands behind his back and bit his lip, trying not to let his own anguish show.

The King walked forward. "Do not touch your hand, Faramir," he said. "It might be infected if you do so. Breathe easily." The Steward tried to do so, but he looked quite dizzy- his eyes spun round as he stared at the blood running down his arm. He went limp against the wall, unconscious.

There was a choked noise from Boromir as he looked down on his younger brother. Gil-galad just stared at the Steward, not knowing what to do, or what words of comfort he might offer Boromir. As he watched, Boromir crouched beside the Steward and carefully picked something up off the stone floor. Gil-galad noticed that his right arm moved stiffly, as if it was injured. He was contemplating this when he realized what Boromir had picked up.

The first son of Denethor held his cupped hand out before him. Two bloodied objects were in the palm of his hand, and he looked down at them with a sickened expression. He closed his eyes as if forcing himself not to stare. His free hand reached over to his cupped hand, and with shaking fingers, he picked up one of the objects: a ring finger. Gil-galad turned away, sickness roiling in his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Boromir throw down the severed fingers with a cringe. His eyes were bright.

Boromir's eyes met the King's for a second. A flicker of hurt came over Boromir's face, but it was gone in a second, replaced with worry. "Is there aught you can do to prevent him from... bleeding out and d-dying?" There was a definite sob in his voice. Gil-galad felt a bit panicked that his friend had been reduced to tears.

Isildur, who had been silent, stepped forward and put a steady hand on Boromir's shaking shoulder. "King Elessar, may we take our leave?" Before the King could answer, Boromir broke in.

"Do not- do not make me l-leave him," he sobbed. His face was distorted in grief, and tears ran freely down his face. "Do not let him d-die, Arag-g-orn..." His broad shoulders heaved with sobs.

"You may," said Aragorn, a worried look on his face as his eyes drifted between the two sons of Denethor.

Gil-galad knelt beside the unconscious Steward as Boromir and Isildur walked out the threshold. He reached out a pale hand and gently lifted Faramir's injured, mauled left hand off the ground. "King Elessar," he said quietly as blood stained his fingers, "it appears we shall need to improvise whilst bandaging this..."

* * *

"F-forgive me," Boromir choked out as Isildur led him down the hallway. "How weak I must s-seem..." Isildur had never seen his companion so distressed, and it made him distressed in turn. It made him think of things he would rather not think of, but he did not mind that. _After all, _the Numenorean thought, _naught can cease to exist in memory even if one does not think of it._

"There is naught to forgive, Boromir," he said, attempting to sound kind. Isildur realized he did not know exactly where he was leading his friend, so he stopped where he was. "You are concerned for your brother. That is a noble thing."

Boromir's normally composed face was rather blotchy and contorted with sobs. He sat down heavily on the stone floor and buried his face in his hands. Even though Isildur, being a Numenorean, was used to towering over others, he felt the need to sit down next to his companion. He lowered himself to the floor close to Boromir and sat. He racked his brain for what to say, but he came up with naught. So, not knowing what to say, he found himself saying the first thing that came to his mind.

"I do not mind if you weep," he said honestly. "Every Man needs to do so at some time in his life."

"I- I do n-not," Boromir managed, disproving himself by breaking into a fresh round of sobs.

"Every Man does," Isildur repeated. He heard himself add quietly, "even I, Boromir." Boromir simply shook his head in answer, his long hair falling over his face and hiding it. "It is true," said Isildur. Hoping to console Boromir, he said, "I wept my for brother, also, though he was not as lucky as Faramir to get away with his life."

Boromir's sobbing slowed enough for him to ask, "A-anarion?" Isildur, who had not heard his brother's name spoken for quite a long time, startled, then nodded. The two sat in near-silence as Isildur thought to himself. Boromir's weeping had slowed for the most part.

Sudenly, a muffled cry of pain came from the room they had left. It sounded like the Steward. Boromir fell completely silent for a second. Then the cry came again, and his sobs became louder, gut-wrenching, and almost painful-sounding. Isildur had no idea what to say, so he just sat there next to his friend, silent. He hoped it was a comforting silence. When Boromir's sobbing became yet worse, Isildur reasoned that his silence might be disconcerting Boromir.

"Your brother will be in the best of hands," he said. "Gil-galad is a very learned healer by the standards of Men and Elves both. I know little of Elessar, but you have said he is quite skilled in healing. Do not fear."

Boromir lifted his head to look at Isildur. His face was splotchy and tear-stained, his eyes wide and bright. "I cannot simply 'not fear', Isildur," he said quietly. His sobbing had stopped, but tears slowly oozed from his eyes. "The fears I have are for aught, and I do not doubt in the skills of my friends. I have died once, and Faramir did not stop grieving for me until I took off my hood when we were in the throne room. If Faramir falls, I shall never stop grieving. I lost him once, while I was lost to him, and I do not wish to lose him again. That is what I fear- knowing that he will be safe by my side nevermore."

Isildur was torn between being impressed by Boromir's loyalty and insisting that he should not speak of the Steward falling while he lay bleeding, so he kept quiet. Boromir sighed shakily and rubbed at his face roughly with the edge of his long, borrowed cloak. "I thank you, by the way," he said unexpectedly, turning to Isildur.

"Why?" the son of Elendil said, perplexed as to why he deserved Boromir's thanks. "I have done naught."

"You saw the door start to fall as I stood in front of it," Boromir corrected him. "If you had not caused me to turn round, I would have been blinded by the metal bolt on the door. I owe you a great deal, Isildur son of Elendil."

Isildur was speechless. Many people owed him quite a bit, yet most had never chosen to remind him of it. There was one, though, who always did, and Isildur could not help but blurt out, "You remind me of him."

"Of whom?" Boromir asked. His voice was still a bit unsteady. His eyes were bloodshot with weeping as he stared at Isildur with a question in his gaze.

"Anarion," Isildur admitted quietly. "He always insisted he was in my debt." He propped his arms on his knees, trying to not remember his brother's determined, firm glares... the way he himself went off alone and wept until he was sick to his stomach after Anarion fell...

"Doubtless he was," Boromir said. "We are all in your debt in one way or another."

They were silent for many minutes. Isildur found himself thinking of the Blue Wizard, and how he could have brought back his brother. No matter how often he crushed these thoughts, they always came back. _It is selfish to think of such things, _he told himself. _The Blue Wizard is most certainly not to be trusted, and you have two companions that are both loyal and valiant. One can ask for naught more._

When he grew too anxious to sit any longer, Isildur asked, "Do you deem yourself fit to go back, Boromir?" Boromir nodded, and the two of them stood. Though they did not speak it, they both felt as if they knew a great deal more about each other, and where their loyalties lay.

* * *

_How still he is! _Boromir thought unhappily as he looked down at his brother. Faramir sat upon a high-backed wooden chair, staring wordlessly at his newly-bandaged left hand. The bandages had been wound about the remains of his hand in a way that did not appear very tidy, and the bandages, Boromir noticed, were actually pieces of a bedspread, cut into thin strips. Still, Boromir was confident in Aragorn and Gil-galad and their skill with healing. He felt his eyes prickle a bit with angry tears as he looked at Faramir.

His eyes were drawn away from his younger brother, though, when the Blue Wizard's staff loudly tapped the stone floor. Boromir turned to look at the old Wizard, and found his fingers itching to wrap themselves around the Wizard's neck until he would fall, limp, to the ground. _Why Faramir, Valar curse you?_ he thought as if the Blue Wizard could hear what he was thinking. _Why not I? I would have gladly taken the blade for Faramir.  
_

"The Steward is tended to," said the Wizard's commanding voice, "and I believe we made an agreement that once he was tended to, you would listen to what I have to say." Boromir clenched his hands together. He wanted to snatch his sword and carve a few more wrinkles into the Wizard's age-lined face, as payment for what he did to his brother.

"We did agree such," said Aragorn. His voice was strained. He sounded angry also. Boromir stole a look at him and saw that his face was unreadable, but his eyes flared. "I shall hear your demands." He sounded as if he was trying quite hard to sound dignified.

"Do not listen to him," Boromir said sharply. "If a citizen of Minas Tirith was brought to you, asking for you to hear his demands after he had maimed your Steward, would you hear what he had to say? I certainly would not!" He glared at the Blue Wizard with every bit of anger he could muster. He had felt betrayed at first. He had wondered, at first, why the Wizard would bring him to life only to try to kill him again. Now he only felt ire.

A low voice came from behind Boromir. "Do not speak so angrily, brother," said Faramir quietly. Boromir spun around, and felt his angry expression soften at his brother's pained face. He knew not what to say, so he merely nodded and turned back to the Wizard.

"I assume they have told you of me," said the Blue Wizard to Aragorn. His cold eyes looked over Gil-galad, Boromir, and Isildur in turn.

"You somehow brought the three of them back to life," said Aragorn.

"I did indeed," said the Blue Wizard with a self-satisfied look. "And if you are to send some of your guardsmen into the forests, you shall find an army of orcs that I have also brought back to life."

Aragorn paled. "This is impossible," he said. Some of the dignity was gone from his voice, replaced by fear.

"Is that so?" said the Wizard. "Send your guardsmen, and you shall see."

With a nervous intake of breath, Aragorn said, "What is the point you are trying to make by doing this?"

"Gondor is mine," the Blue Wizard said, "and so are Gil-galad, Isildur, and Boromir." Boromir gritted his teeth. He felt increasingly unnerved and full of rage.

"The crown of Gondor belongs to King Elessar," said Isildur's rough voice. Boromir felt reassured by his friend's loyalty.

The Blue Wizard looked at Isildur with distaste. "I was promised the land of Gondor," he said. "And I have come to claim it." Boromir felt a chill coming over him: he felt as if his second chance at life had just disappeared.

"You shall not take Gondor while I live," Boromir spat. He did not know who had promised Gondor to the Blue Wizard, and he did not care- he only knew that Gondor belonged to Aragorn, and no one else.

The Wizard looked as if he had expected him to say that. "You have two options, Elessar," he said. "Leave the throne and leave Gondor, or watch as I slay your three new friends." Boromir tensed. Surely the Wizard meant the Three Riders.

"Everyone has the power to take a life," Gil-galad interjected.

"I have brought the three of them back," said the Blue Wizard, ignoring Gil-galad, "and I can take them from you. I need not even to touch them, or to be near to them. The three of them can tell you, they have heard my voice, speaking in their minds."

"I have not," said Gil-galad, "though Boromir and Isildur say they have heard such a thing." The Wizard looked a bit annoyed at this, and rather disappointed, as if he had made a fault.

"I can speak to them without talking aloud," the Wizard said. Suddenly, Boromir felt a familiar throbbing in his head, and the Blue Wizard's voice hissed, _"How loyal a brother you are. It is a shame to waste that loyalty. Perhaps if you become loyal to another..."_

Before he even knew what he was doing, Boromir had the point of his sword at the Blue Wizard's neck again. "I have been corrupted once," he said. "My mind shall not be ensnared so easily now." He felt like the Ring was whispering to him again, and the terrible feeling of knowing his own weakness had returned.

The Blue Wizard had a cunning smile on his face. He ignored the blade that threatened to slit his throat, and began to speak to Aragorn again. Boromir found himself angered yet more by this, but he kept silent, blade at the ready.

"You see? I gave them their lives back, and I can very easily take them," the Blue Wizard repeated.

Aragorn looked so tense he might snap. "How can I prevent their deaths?"

The Wizard's triumphant smile made Boromir want to gag. "You can give me Gondor. If you do not give me the White Land freely, I will be forced to slay all of you who stand in my way."

"Gondor or the Three Riders?" asked Faramir's quite voice from his chair.

The Three Riders in question all locked eyes. Gil-galad had an almost weary look in his eyes, but there was also a firm acceptance. Isildur looked as determined as Boromir felt himself.

And so they spoke at once, as if from the same mouth: "Gondor."


	7. Sunlight Not Shadowed

**I have to say, you all surprised me... don't think I'll give up the Three Riders (or Gondor, for that matter) so quickly! I've learned from experience that killing off characters (while it is a plot twist) makes people absolutely despise you, and/or give up reading your fic. :p**

**Still, thank you for your favorites, follows, time, and most of all, your reviews! And I apologize for the delay, I'm having a busy time.**

**I took Gil-galad's paternity out of The Silmarillion. Keep that in mind.**

**Thanks to fantasychica37 for informing me that 'Gondor' does _not _mean 'White Land'. :)**

**Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing!**

**I've got a poll up on my profile about this fic! The question is '****Who is your favorite of the Three Riders from my fic, Sword, Horn, and Spear?' I'd love it if you voted on that.**  


* * *

Many things began to happen all at once. Faramir shot up from his chair with a horrified expression. Aragorn, equally disconcerted, said firmly, "You will not!" to the Three Riders.

Boromir glared at him. There was fear in his eyes, and also a fierce loyalty. "Gondor has long stood without us! It can stand yet!"

"It shall not stand if I turn it over to the Blue Wizard!" Aragorn said. To his shame, his voice sounded quite frantic. His heart seemed to be making up for the beat it had skipped when the Three Riders said 'Gondor' by beating thrice times faster than it should.

"We shall not let the land of Gondor fall to darkness!" Isildur's rough-edged voice said adamantly. He stood proud and tall, as if wanting to make a good impression before his death. Gil-galad, who normally looked so collected and calm, was gripping Aiglos, his spear. His hands were clenched so hard it looked as if he was striving to snap the weapon in two. Boromir, for once, did not look angry. He looked as if he was accepting the fact he had to die. Gil-galad and Isildur looked the same way.

Aragorn could not bear to see that.

"We shall not agree to either 'option'," he said to the Blue Wizard determinedly, making a rash choice. "At this moment, I declare war against you and all your followers. I am witnessed by my Steward, Isildur son of Elendil, Boromir son of Denethor, and Gil-galad son of Fingon." He looked over at the Three Riders to see if they approved of what he was inciting, and was rewarded with their nods. "As soon as our troops are mustered, we shall go to war."

To Aragorn's horror, the Blue Wizard looked almost amused. "Your friends shall fall either way. It matters not if they die in war or by my hand personally."

Faramir spoke, in the voice he most often used when he was angry, that quiet, dangerous voice: "If they fall, it shall be an honorable death in battle." His right hand cradled his bandaged left gingerly.

The Wizard chuckled, and Aragorn's blood felt like acid in his veins. "We shall see about 'honorable'. Tomorrow at sundown, Elessar, we shall do battle- and we shall fight until one of us is dead."

Aragorn nodded wordlessly, for he did not trust his voice to hide the pain he felt inside.

* * *

Isildur sat on a bench in the gardens of the Citadel, head bowed, fingers nervously tapping on his armored legs. The mid-autumn insects crawled over the cheerful flowers, heedless to the anxiety of the Man that sat among them. He had been sitting there for hours, and the sun was beginning to sink from the sky.

"Stop that," a smooth voice said suddenly. Isildur spun round on the bench with a snarl, readying his sword, but he only faced Gil-galad. The Elven-king had a small smile on his lips. "Why, you are almost as fidgety as Anormir," he continued, reminding Isildur that they still had to use their aliases. "At least you do not bite your fingernails as he does."

Isildur tried to answer, but found himself stuttering angrily like a fool. "I-I do not- _fidgety_- what-"

"King Elessar has called us to the stables at the lowest level of the city," said Gil-galad, ignoring Isildur and his mess of defensive words. "He says we are to go down to that level as Galadhmir, Ithilmir, and Anormir, and we are to go back up with him as Gil-galad, Isildur, and Boromir." Gil-galad handed Isildur a black, hooded cloak. "It appears we are to now reveal that we are alive. Why are you so nervous?"

"You answer your own question, Galadhmir," Isildur said, pulling on the cloak and whipping the hood over his head.

"Why are you afraid of a city full of fearful Men?" Gil-galad asked, donning his own hood. He looked rather strange, wearing fine clothes, but concealing them with a traveller's humble cloak. Isildur supposed he must look equally odd.

"I am not afraid of them," said Isildur. "I am only afraid that they might blame us for bringing them to war once again."

"I see," said Gil-galad knowingly. "Well, I advise you to save your fear for the Blue Wizard and the orcs that rally to him. They are much different from the ones I have seen before; stronger, more powerful."

"You saw them?" asked Isildur. He stood up from his bench and began to make his way out of the garden.

Gil-galad smiled that easy smile of his. "Whilst you sat pondering to yourself, I scouted into the forests with several of King Elessar's men. As Gil-galad, not Galadhmir."

"And?" Isildur asked, shaking his leg free of an offending rosebush. When Gil-galad did not reply, he pressed on: "And how fared you?"

"The soldiers fell silent when I revealed my identity and did not speak for quite some time," Gil-galad admitted, sounding quite disappointed.

"You should be glad of your rank among them," the Man said, picking a thorn from his leather boot. "Why are you not?"

Gil-galad fell into step beside him. "I suppose I would like to be treated as if I was any other Elf," he said, "but my actions and family line rob me of any normalcy. As is the same with you and Anormir."

Isildur supposed he could understand this, and would have liked to speak more on it, but the alias of his other companion made him think of something. "Where is Anormir?" he asked.

"He refuses to leave Faramir's side," said Gil-galad, "though I suspect it is more than that which keeps him from showing his face to the people." Isildur did not know, at first, why Gil-galad said this, but the Elf continued: "I suspect he was even more put off by the poem than he conveyed to us."

Isildur remembered the poem. He had been thoroughly shocked upon hearing it, and wondered what awful things Boromir had done to deserve such a sullying of his honor. But he knew of only one terrible act Boromir had committed: trying to take the Ring and betraying his Fellowship. The Numenorean had privately wondered if only years of traditional reverence of his own name prevented such a thing from being written about him.

Thunking, running footsteps came from behind the two, and Isildur spun around, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Boromir skidded to a halt beside them. His hood had been blown off his head with the wind, there was sweat on his brow, and he looked a bit red-eyed, as if he had been weeping.

"We did not think you were joining us," said Gil-galad. "How fares your brother?"

Boromir's eyes were focused on the stone ground. "He- he is in pain," Boromir admitted. "The numbing herbs have worn off, and he weeps and begs for me to finish the job of slaying him. I fear his wound will become infected. If that is the case, he shall not last long." His broad shoulders slumped as he sighed.

"Do you doubt Elessar and I?" Gil-galad asked in a light tone. What he did not say was as clear as if he had said it: 'Your brother shall live, though he may be pained now. Do not worry.'

"Not at all," said Boromir as the Three Riders walked down the quiet street. "I merely do not wish to see my brother in pain. And... I do not wish to speak of this." He wove his fingers together over and over nervously, and Isildur realized what Gil-galad was quite true in saying that Boromir was 'fidgety'.

"I understand, my friend," said Gil-galad in his usual calm tone. There was an added twinge of kindness in his voice. Isildur had known the Elven-king long enough to know that Gil-galad was polite to everyone, but kind only to his most trusted comrades. It was reassuring to know that Gil-galad viewing the other two of the Three Riders as such. "How glad I shall be when I may go about without this bothersome hood!" the Elf said in a lighter tone. "I feel as if I am one of the Nazgul."

To Isildur's amusement, Boromir gave a soft cry under his breathe like that of an eagle- the signal that the Three Riders used whilst they travelled and pulled his hood over his head again. "I presume the screeching did not shatter that perception," he said.

"It did not," Gil-galad said with a quiet laugh. "But it was rather amusing that citizens mistook us for the Nine." Boromir did not reply, and the Three Riders walked on in silence until they reached the stables at the lowest level of Minas Tirith.

King Elessar waited, holding the reins of a fine horse. Without a greeting, he gestured with his other hand at the Three Riders' stabled horses. "Are the three of you prepared to reveal your faces?" he asked gravely. "I will not fault you if you wish to wait to do so."

Isildur, who was grabbing the reins of his dappled grey horse, turned to look at Boromir, expecting him to speak up. To his surprise, Boromir said naught, but he was fiddling with his bitten-down fingernails nervously. Isildur waited for his friend to protest against King Elessar's wish him to reveal his face, but he did not. Not sure whether to believe that Boromir had overcame his uneasiness of the citizens' scorn, Isildur wordlessly hoisted himself onto the back on his horse, the tattered leather saddle beneath him keeping him from sliding off the horses's sweaty hair.

"We are ready, King Elessar," Gil-galad stated determinedly. He sat, proud and as tall as was possible for him on the bare back of his horse. Gil-galad had always preferred riding bareback, and could not imagine having what he called a 'hindering piece of leather' beneath him. The Elf caught Isildur's eye and half-smiled.

"You need not refer to me by my title," said King Elessar from his own horse. "You were a companion of mine once, Boromir. Isildur and Gil-galad, you are far above my rank, and it is unnecessary to refer to me as 'King Elessar'."

Isildur, feeling rather disrespectful, asked, "Then what may we refer to you as?" he asked.

The King thought. "You may call me Aragorn," he said. "I have many names, but it is the one I like best."

"It daresay it shall do, Aragorn," said Gil-galad. He turned to the other member of their small company. "Are you well, Boromir?" he asked, concerned.

Isildur turned on his mount to look at his friend. Boromir stood beside his horse, one of his fingertips being savagely bit by his teeth. He looked down at his feet, but when Gil-galad spoke, he raised his head. "I am," he said in an unusually dispirited voice, taking his fingertip out of his mouth and getting onto his horse in a rather reluctant manner. He gripped the reins of his horse tightly with one hand, and threw back his black hood.

Aragorn nodded. "We shall ride to the Citadel," he said firmly. "Remove your hoods." Isildur reached up and pulled back his hood, the sunlight from the open stable door warming his face. It somehow reassured him, knowing that Anor was smiling down on him and making him keep his head held high. Gil-galad did the same, and seemed to perk up a bit at the sun and her cheerful light. He tilted his head toward the sun's rays, and Isildur remembered how Gil-galad's relentless habit of sitting in sun by the Anduin resulted in his dark head of hair bleaching light brown.

"Let us ride," Boromir said from his chestnut mount. He muttered something else that Isildur could not hear, and shifted on his saddle anxiously.

Aragorn's response was to urge his horse on, and the Three Riders, once again riding together, followed him out of the stables.

Isildur gripped his horses's reins nervously so hard his hands ached. Not many people were out in the streets, but those that were halted and stared at their small procession of horses. King Elessar -_no, you must refer to him as Aragorn,_ Isildur reminded himself- caught their looks and called out, "Look upon them! Isildur son of Elendil, Gil-galad son of Fingon, and Boromir son of Denethor! They live once again! Behold: the Three Riders!"

Isildur had to force himself to gaze back at the people, and to keep a noble look on his face. His eyes darted to the side, looking at his companions. Gil-galad looked perfectly calm, as was usual for him, but on closer inspection of the Elf, Isildur noted that he was a bit tense. Boromir looked levelly and proudly out at his people, but his fingers were twitching and fidgeting on his horses's reins. Isildur was rather glad that he was not the only one who was nervous.

People rushed out of their homes to look upon them. They whispered to each other, and their eyes were as big as rounded war-shields. The children pointed, and their mouths hung open. Some people looked in awe. Others looked as if they would throw rotten fruit at the Three Riders if they were not riding with the King of Gondor. Yet others looked quite suspicious. Some walked away, whispers and a frown on their lips. Isildur forced himself to sit up tall, and they left those people behind, only to be met by yet more people.

Each time they came upon a wave of people, Aragorn called out the names of the Three Riders and told of their new lives. He cried, "War is upon us, but no one shall harm Minas Tirith! We shall make sure of that. The Three Riders, the Steward, and I shall lead a charge against the one who seeks Gondor's ruin!" Boromir pulled the Horn of Gondor from a clasp on his belt and began to sound it, as if he was renewed by Aragorn's confident words.

A flicker of pride was in Isildur's soul as he heard his heir addressing his people. It was not unlike the pride he experienced many years ago, when he and his son, Valandil, had sat together by a fire one night. Valandil had told Isildur that he should like to charge into battle against any who opposed Gondor. He had been naught but a young boy, but Isildur had felt such pride then...

_My thoughts stray, _Isildur thought, but the almost-fatherly pride he had felt was still there as the Three Riders rode through the city, their faces turned -not shadowed, at last- to the sun.


	8. Three Loyal Brothers

**Thanks to everyone for your time, reviews, follows, votes on the poll, and favorites! No matter how many times I say that, I'm not going to be faking my thanks. :)**

**Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing.**

**I haven't put this in my other A/N-s, but this fic isn't meant to have slash, no matter how hard you squint at it. Sorry, slash shippers.**

**Long chapter, I know, but it's got more action.**

**My poll is still open! Feel free to vote on it for your favorite of the Three Riders. :)**

* * *

Boromir awoke with a loud shout on his lips, sitting up swiftly. His eyes darted around, searching for someone's presence that he could blame his nightmares on. He only saw the slumbering forms of Gil-galad and Isildur in two beds beside his. Peaceful, light breathing came from the two, and Boromir felt relieved that he had not woken his friends.

_Valar, how my stomach aches! _Boromir thought as he slid out of bed. Sweat made his skin slick, and he wiped his perspiring hands on his bedsheets nervously. His stomach was all in knots from his disconcerting dream, and he knew that if he fell back to sleep, he would return to the nightmare-land. So he cautiously crept past his sleeping companions and donned day-clothes, not wishing to be wandering the streets of Minas Tirith in naught but a dressing gown.

There was the sound of metal on metal from his clothes, and he looked down at his waist to see a small bag tied to his leather belt. He untied it, and held it, knowing its contents and hating them with all his heart. His stomach churned yet more at the sight of it. He reached one broad hand into the bag carefully, and it came out holding a steel shard of a broken sword. It glinted in the light of the torch on the wall, and Boromir looked upon it with obvious distaste. It was a piece of the sword that had broken when he fell at Parth Galen. He tucked it carefully back into the bag, with a disgusted shudder, and set the bag next to his bed.

He realized a bit too late that he knew not where he was going. He wandered around the torch-lit halls of the building the Three Riders were in, his footsteps breaking the silence in a dissonant way. Boromir did not know what he was looking for, but he kept wandering down the halls, until he came to the door of the building. He hesitated. He did not carry his sword, and it was not the safest time to walk the streets alone.

_But what harm will come to me? _he asked himself. _The Blue Wizard and his orcs do not walk these streets._ Satisfied by that logic, he opened the door and began to walk down the street. Boromir listened carefully for the sounds of an approaching person, but he did not hear them. Only the quiet sound of his own breathing and his loud footsteps made noise in the night. It was a lonely feeling, one that he did not relish. Boromir felt quite vulnerable.

He heard the person behind him just before they said his name. "Boromir," came a quiet, grim voice. Thinking some sneaking citizen had saw him and thought it would be amusing to torment him, Boromir walked faster. "Face me." He ignored the person's request and set his jaw, striding at a mad pace down the dark street. "Boromir, face me, I say! I only wish to speak with you." The voice sounded more familiar, but Boromir did not mark it. Only then did he realize how angry he really was: so angry that he did not wish to speak with anyone.

A cold hand grasped his arm and forcibly swung him around. Boromir indignantly reached for his sword, and, not finding it, clenched his hand into a fist and blindly hit at whoever had grabbed him. "The enemy is outside of the gates!" he snapped, not looking at the person. "I am not the enemy here! If you seek to make me unwelcome in my own birth city, then you have already succeeded, you backstabbing son of a b-"

"Boromir!" said the voice sharply, and Boromir finally recognized the voice. He faced the person and found himself staring into the wise, kingly face of Aragorn son of Arathorn. "What causes you to speak such?" he asked. Strangely, he did not sound too confused.

"I- I apologize, Aragorn," said Boromir. For a reason he did not know, it was almost hard to force those words from his throat. "I know not what came over me."

He knew, of course, the cause of his anger, but he did not feel right with telling it to Aragorn. He and Aragorn had once travelled together, that was true, but they had not been good friends. It was no secret that things were strained between them.

Aragorn sighed. "Perhaps, then, I may tell you," he said. His solemn gray eyes fixated themselves on Boromir's, and the son of Denethor had to force himself not to look away. "A part of you is angry with me for reciting that poem."

Boromir felt sickness in him again. Aragorn knew, then. He looked away from Aragorn's relentless stare. "Perhaps," he muttered, fixing his eyes on his scuffed boots.

"It is for certain," Aragorn told him. "I do not have insults thrown at me or a fist aimed at me for naught." Boromir did not know what to say, so he clasped his hands behind his back and valiantly met Aragorn's gaze again. "I apologize, Boromir, for bringing back the memories you wished to forget."

"If you are truly sorry, you would not have recited the thrice-cursed poem," Boromir said angrily. Images from his dream flashed through his mind: himself snarling angrily at Frodo, trying to take the Ring, countless arrows thumping into him, the Ring glinting in the sunlight enticingly. They made his knees weak, they made his hands tremble.

"I apologize," Aragorn repeated. "You yourself gave me your consent to recite the poem."

"Then it is another fault of mine," Boromir said. Without warning, the Blue Wizard's voice whispered in his mind: _"Yes, you have much on your shoulders, Boromir son of Denethor. If you were to come to my encampment with terms of surrender, you would find that the guilt would be removed." _Boromir clenched his hands even tighter, feeling an awful temptation to strike Aragorn. "It is I who should apologize," he said quickly, wanting to leave before the temptation overcame him. "I bid you good night, Aragorn."

Aragorn seized him again. "If we are to go to war on the same side, we should not be fighting each other. Is that not reasonable?" he asked. The Blue Wizard kept whispering, and his words became almost interchangeable. Boromir only knew the temptation that they brought.

_Gondor. You will not fail Gondor again! _he thought desperately. But the Blue Wizard told him that Gondor would flourish under his rule. He said that Gondor was like an overgrown rosebush. It simply needed trimming, and King Elessar was too careless to trim it. The Wizard promised he would not bring Gondor to ruin. Boromir fought him with all his might, mentally cursing him with every swear word he had learned as a young soldier.

"Let me go!" Boromir said to Aragorn, trying to leave before he did something unintentional. "The poem matters not, any rift between us matters not! Let me go!" Aragorn looked like one who has lost track of a conversation. There were practically question marks in his eyes.

"Boromir...?" Aragorn asked, sounding utterly confused, and a bit nervous.

Then, despite the strong the strong mental shield Boromir had put up, the Blue Wizard's voice took hold of his mind. Boromir knew no more.

* * *

Gil-galad urgently shook Isildur's limp, slumbering body. "Up!" he cried. "Up with you, Isildur!" He felt guilty for interrupting his friend's peaceful rest, but it was essential. His eyes darted around the room, as if expecting the third of their company to spring from the shadows at any second. Isildur woke, eyes at half-mast, looking weary.

"What is amiss?" he asked groggily, rubbing his sleepy eyes with his fists.

"Boromir is gone," Gil-galad said, anxiously perching on the edge of Isildur's bed. Isildur seemed to wake, eyes sharpening, brow furrowing.

"Did you hear him leave?" he asked. Gil-galad shook his head, eyes darting to the door, checking if anyone was approaching. No telltale footsteps came. "We must go after him!" Isildur said firmly, looking as if he could run out the room in his dressing gown and strike down anyone who might have dragged Boromir from the room.

"That would be very unwise," said Gil-galad in an equally firm tone. "As much as I am loyal to our friend, he would not want us to run into possible conflict for his sake." Isildur seemed to be thinking that over, and Gil-galad waited patiently for his companion to see sense.

"That may be the-" Isildur started, breaking the silence, but just as he spoke, Gil-galad heard footsteps.

"Silence!" he hissed quietly as footsteps echoed through the halls. It sounded as if someone was running toward their room. Gil-galad got up as silently as possible and made his way to the threshold. Broken doors had lain there, and Faramir had nearly bled out there not even a day ago. The doors were propped up against the wall, a chilling reminder that the Three Riders were never safe. The footsteps came closer, running faster. Gil-galad heard Isildur swearing under his breath as he pulled on clothes.

Gil-galad turned to grab his spear, and suddenly, someone hurtled at him at a great speed. He was knocked flat on his back, and the person that ran into him fell on top of him. With a quiet groan, Gil-galad made to rise. Then he saw who had ran into him.

"King El- Aragorn!" he said, surprised. "What is the matter?" Aragorn rolled off of Gil-galad with a hasty apology and stood.

"Boromir has gone mad!" Aragorn said. His voice was panicked, and he looked as if he had been in a scuffle: his nose was bloodied, and the red-purple marks of fists were on his skin. He offered a hand to Gil-galad, who accepted it. He got to his feet. "We were speaking, and all of a sudden, he leapt at me and struck me with a closed fist. I know not what has came over him."

Isildur walk unsteadily over to Aragorn and Gil-galad, pulling on a boot whilst walking. "Where is he now?" his rough voice asked with a veneer of calm that Gil-galad easily saw through. He wanted to tell Isildur not to worry about their companion, but there was so much cause for worry that saying such would be a lie.

"I do not know; I ran from him as soon as I could get away," Aragorn said. "He did not appear to be running after me."

"Give us leave go after him," said Isildur. "Perhaps we can convince him to see reason." He looked over at Gil-galad, silently asking for his approval. Gil-galad gave a short nod.

"Go, but be on your guard," Aragorn said. Gil-galad quickly thanked the King, and ran out the threshold, quickly grabbing Aiglos as he sprinted out. Isildur was right on his heels.

"Where should we look?" asked Isildur's voice from behind Gil-galad.

"Perhaps he has not moved from where Aragorn left him," Gil-galad suggested, carefully running down a flight of stairs. He found himself asking a question of his own: "Do you know the cause of his madness? Is it a characteristic of Men that I have somehow skimmed over?"

Isildur's footsteps thunked on the stone stairs. "You insult the race of Men, Gil-galad," he said, not seriously, but not jestingly either. "We are not naturally mad. I suspect the Blue Wizard has something to do with this."

"I apologize," Gil-galad said, his free hand reaching for the door that led out to the streets. "What do you mean, 'the Blue Wizard'-" He was cut off by his own cry of surprise, and he took a swift step backwards. The door he had been about to open had been thrown open from the other side, and the one who had opened it was Boromir.

In all the long time the Three Riders had travelled together, Gil-galad had never seen Boromir look so utterly defeated. His proud stance had wilted, and he resembled a dying flower: his muscles had gone limp. His head was inclined in a shamed slump, a curtain of dark hair covered his face. He also looked as if he had been in a scuffle with someone. Despite Aragorn's warning about Boromir's possible madness, Gil-galad could not help but feel pity for the Man.

He felt himself being pushed aside, and Isildur moved past Gil-galad to the door, facing Boromir. Boromir did not meet his eyes. "What ails you, Boromir, my friend?" Isildur asked, his voice concerned, kind, and cautious.

Boromir did not answer. "Where is Aragorn?" he asked in a mumbling voice.

Gil-galad was on his guard again, and did not answer, seeking to preserve the King's safety. "Why did you harm him?" Gil-galad asked Boromir, attempting to peer out from behind Isildur's tall form.

The Man looked up for a second. His eyes were wide. "I harmed him?" he whispered.

Isildur turned to look at Gil-galad. His face was somber and worried. When he turned back, his voice sounded as if it was fighting to stay steady. "It is as I feared, then," he said. He clasped Boromir's arm. "This is not a fault of yours, Boromir. The Blue Wizard's evil is at work. His voice is persuasive."

"Let go of me," said Boromir quietly. His voice was hollow. "Please." The one word was all it took for Gil-galad to know Boromir's intentions, and for him to fully realize what happened. The Blue Wizard had been whispering to Boromir, and his voice had made Boromir turn on the King. Boromir intended to leave Minas Tirith. He was ashamed of what he had done, so ashamed he did not think himself worthy of Gondor.

"No," he said firmly, making his way around Isildur and gripping Boromir's other arm. "As Isildur said, this is not your fault in the slightest. The Blue Wizard merely chose to speak to you." Gil-galad met Isildur's eyes and tried to silently speak to him with his facial expression. Isildur apparently conveyed Gil-galad's unspoken words, because he nodded.

"We should return to the room, Boromir," Isildur said. "The sun still has yet to rise, and you look as if you have not had enough sleep. Come with us." Before Boromir could answer, Isildur began to pull Boromir up the stairs, aided by Gil-galad. Boromir dejectedly walked up the stairs. Gil-galad noticed that he did not carry his sword or the Horn of Gondor. Had he left them at the room? Or had he cast them aside after his apparent fight with Aragorn?

Gil-galad realized they had come to the room, so he stopped. He heard a pained hiss come from inside. When he looked past the threshold fleetingly to check for danger, he found only Aragorn, sitting on one of the chairs and attempting to heal his own bloodied nose. With a relieved sigh, Gil-galad beckoned Isildur and Boromir to follow him into the room.

Aragorn looked up, not entirely surprised by their appearance. He looked at Isildur and Gil-galad in turn questioningly. When Aragorn's eyes rested upon him, Isildur elbowed Boromir lightly. "I believe you have much to explain, Boromir," the Man said.

"Indeed," said Aragorn, getting to his feet. His confused, slightly angry expression softened when he saw Boromir. "Look at me, Boromir," the King said. With a quiet sigh, Boromir lifted his chin up. Gil-galad could not see his face from where he stood, but Boromir appeared to be trying to appear more dignified. "I do not fault you," Aragorn continued.

Boromir acted as if he had not heard. "I have betrayed my companions again by listening to the Blue Wizard's voice," he said hollowly. "I allowed myself to be controlled. I promised myself that such a thing would never happen again. I have broken another promise." He looked at Aragorn piercingly. "I must leave you now," he said, and Gil-galad noted a bit of sadness in his voice. Boromir turned to Isildur. "I hope that, one day, I shall repay my debt to you," he said to the son of Elendil. Isildur opened his mouth, undoubtedly to try to persuade Boromir not to leave, but he kept speaking.

"Gil-galad, you have always had something to say to me at every moment. I thank you for that," he told the Elf. His eyes were sharp and resolute.

Gil-galad could not help but interrupt: "Boromir, you did not betray-"

Boromir had already continued. "Aragorn, my loyalty lies in forever in Gondor and her King," he said. Boromir hesitated. "Tell Faramir of my treason."

"Boromir, you are not a traitor!" Isildur broke in. "We do not think you a traitor."

"But _I know_ I am," Boromir said firmly. "I take my leave." Swiftly, he grabbed his sheathed sword, a bag that Gil-galad knew contained his broken sword, and the Horn of Gondor.

And then Boromir left before anyone could say a word against his choice of departure.

* * *

"Good Valar, Isildur, if you do not stop pacing, you shall wear footprints in the stone," Gil-galad's voice said calmly from the shadowed corner of the room. Aragorn raised his eyes to see Isildur pacing around the room angrily, an inscrutable expression on his face. Aragorn felt something like worry stir in him as he saw his forefather acting so distraught. He had been acting such for the few hours in which Boromir had been gone.

"I care not," Isildur shot back at Gil-galad, but he halted his pacing. "I wish there was something we could do," he admitted. "Boromir rides to a bleak future." Aragorn privately agreed. Since Boromir had left Minas Tirith, he had chosen a life of wandering and endless travel in the Wild, a life without a true home. It would be torment for the proud Gondorian.

Suddenly, Gil-galad shot up from his chair. "The Blue Wizard's encampment!" he cried, his eyes wide in realization and... was that a flicker of fear? "Boromir does not know where the Blue Wizard camps! He may be riding straight into the camp. If only I had told him its location!" Gil-galad already gripped Aiglos, as if prepared to rush into a battle.

"Aragorn, we must go after him!" said Isildur anxiously. His gray eyes settled on Aragorn, who, upon hearing the possible outcome of Boromir's departure, had risen in shock. "He shall ride into the camp, and no matter how valiant and true his heart is, or how skilled his sword-arm, he shall be captured. We must do something to rescue him from this fate!"

Aragorn realized then the extent of the companionship between the Three Riders. They were not merely travellers riding together, or new friends. They were the best of friends, almost brothers to each other. They cared for each other's well-beings, and they were endlessly loyal. Aragorn remembered the sight of Isildur offering a weeping Boromir comfort. He saw, in his mind's eye, Gil-galad and Isildur bursting from their hiding-place after the Blue Wizard's attack on Faramir, crying out "Elendil! Elendil!" together. Aragorn saw the Three Riders proudly proclaiming their identities to him. And he knew that he could not separate the small company.

"Go after Boromir. Do not slay any orcs unless you are forced to," he found himself saying resignedly. "The battle starts at sundown this evening. I do not wish for it to start earlier." The two nodded.

"I thank you, Aragorn," said Gil-galad's smooth voice as quickly donned his armor. "We shall return soon with Boromir."

Aragorn watched Isildur and Gil-galad leave with skeptical eyes that showed he sincerely doubted that.

* * *

The ground blurred in Isildur's eyes as he urged his horse to run faster. Trees started to shoot from the ground, seemingly out of nowhere, and two trails of horse tracks led him on his way.

"We are near the forests, and the Blue Wizard's encampment! Boromir rode directly to it!" Gil-galad shouted over the wind from his own horse. "Weapons at ready!" It was if Gil-galad was commanding a troops of warriors, and not just Isildur. The Man carefully held the reins of the horse, and drew his sword from its sheath. Gil-galad had prepared Aiglos, and its spear-point glistened in the early morning sunlight. The snarling of orc-voices filled Isildur's ears dimly, and he tensed, noticing something.

"Boromir's trail stops here!" he called to Gil-galad. The Elf urged his horse to a halt and stared in horror at a point above Isildur's head. Isildur quickly stopped his own mount.

"Look up, my friend," Gil-galad said in a hushed voice as something warm and liquid-like dripped onto Isildur's scalp. Steeling himself, he looked up, and quickly moved his horse back. Above him hung the head of Boromir's mount, a chestnut stallion whom his rider had neglected to name. The horse's severed head hung from a rope upon a branch, dripping thick blood- a sickening signal that something had gone terribly wrong with Boromir's leaving the city.

"They have captured him, then," Isildur said gravely.

Gil-galad's face was filled with determination. "Then we must capture him back," he said. "The camp is very near now. Prepare yourself." Isildur took a deep breath and tried not to think about the horse's blood in his hair. He kicked his horse lightly in the side, urging it beside Gil-galad's.

Isildur now had a good view of the encampment- or a small part of it, at least. There was a large, hastily erected tent close to them, and several other, smaller tents surrounded it. Tall, muscle-bound black orcs milled about between the tents. Fires were lit all around them, and the grass smoldered and spat sparks.

"Boromir must be in one of those tents, for I do not see him," said Isildur quietly, glad that trees hid he and Gil-galad from view of the many orcs. "But which one...?"

As if in answer, a loud groan of pain came from a small tent. It did not sound like an orc.

"Boromir is in that tent," Gil-galad said. "Ready your horse. Aragorn does not wish for us to prematurely start the battle, but it appears we must slay these orcs in order to get to Boromir."

Too nervous to speak, Isildur nodded.

"On my mark," Gil-galad said, shifting on the bare back of his horse. The orcs were less abundant around the tent... "Now!" And, with a wordless roar of a battle-cry from Isildur, the two rode into the camp of orcs. Isildur's horse hesitated and tried to shy away from the terrible creatures, but the Man gave it a hard kick, and it rode on. Isildur held tight to his sword-hilt as the blade ripped through the flesh of orcs. In front of him, Gil-galad was quickly skewering orcs on Aiglos, and drawing his spear back so that he would not be forced to throw it.

They came upon the tent easily. "Ride! Ride at the tent! Do not halt!" Gil-galad ordered. The hooves of their horses ripped through the fabric of the tent, and crushed several orc-skulls. Isildur had one eye on his sword and one on the wreckage of the tent, looking for his companion. He looked to Gil-galad for instruction, but the Elf was busy fending off the orcs that were avenging their kin. His spear whirled through the air, but Gil-galad did not risk throwing it for fear of not getting it back.

Isildur spotted a dark-haired head under a felled orc, and urged his horse to a halt. He leaped off his mount and landed somewhat unsteadily on the ground, holding onto the horses's reins so it would not bolt. He made certain that the person he had seen was Boromir. When Isildur was sure the Man was who he thought he was, he attempted to haul Boromir to his feet. A snarl told him an orc was behind him, and he sliced his sword backward without thinking. He noticed that Boromir was conscious, but barely so.

"Boromir!" Isildur said sharply, shaking him. "Go to Gil-galad's horse. It shall-" -he was nearly taken by surprise by an attacking orc's sword, but quickly parried the blade- "-it shall bear you to Minas Tirith. Swiftly!" He let go of Boromir, and, with a stumble, the son of Denethor made his way to Gil-galad's vacated horse.

Isildur climbed onto his own mount, relying on his sturdy armor to take all blows directed at him. The horse protested with a loud whinny, and Isildur tried to remember the Elvish words Gil-galad had always used to calm his horses...

_Gil-galad!_ Isildur thought, alarmed, remembering he had last seen the Elf surrounded by orcs. _Curse it, if aught has happened to him, I shall forever blame myself! _But Gil-galad was climbing onto his own horse, steadying Boromir on the animal's bare back. He locked eyes with Isildur. "Back to the city!" Gil-galad yelled, his voice raspy from the smoke of the orc-fires. His thin face was smeared in ash and coal-dust. "At a run!" he added, needlessly in Isildur's opinion. The orcs did not have horses to ride upon, but they would follow despite that fact.

They set off, working their horses to their absolute limits. In front of him, Isildur could see Boromir struggling to hold onto the horse's neck. Gil-galad sat behind the Man, urging the horse on and endeavoring to keep Boromir from falling off the horse's back. Aiglos's tip was covered in blood. _Gil-galad has always been a skilled warrior, _Isildur thought. _How different he can be when he is on a battle-ground and not in civilized company..._

Without warning, Isildur's horse collapsed to the ground. The Man found himself thrown on top of it, his legs bending awkwardly, a cloud of dust rising from his impact, making him choke. Isildur noticed a spear was in his mount's side. Orcs were coming closer to him, jeering and running, weapons in hand. _Valar curse it, where is my sword?! _Isildur thought frantically, his fingers scrabbling around in the soil. But he saw the hilt poking out from under his fallen horse, and knew he would not be able to draw it in time to save himself.

Gil-galad had turned his own horse around. He looked the image of panic. "Isildur!" he cried in horror. He made as if to turn his horse around, so he might aid his companion.

But the sound of orc-feet was drawing yet closer, and Isildur knew he would only lead his friends to their downfall. "Go!" he bellowed back to Gil-galad. "Leave me!" Gil-galad looked as if he wanted to leap off his horse and run to Isildur, but Isildur would not let him. _I shall let no more die for my sake! _he told himself. _Too many have done so already!_ "Go!" he shouted once again. Gil-galad's face fell, but he nodded.

The last thing Isildur saw before the orcs reached him was the sight of Gil-galad and Boromir disappearing into the trees.


	9. Repercussions of a Failed Rescue

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* * *

The ash was choking him, coating his mouth and slithering down his throat in a powdery river. Gil-galad could not stop himself from coughing, and a fine spray of ash from his mouth dusted the back of Boromir's head.

_Why did I roll into the unlit fire? _Gil-galad wondered, impressed by his own stupidity. _Now I can hardly speak, and I feel as if I could fall off the horse I ride on! _He doubled forward with another fit of coughing. _But I must not! I must ride through the gates. For Boromir! For Isildur!_

If there was ever a time Gil-galad felt like weeping, it was then. Boromir was unconscious, only still on the horse thanks to Gil-galad firmly holding him on it. Isildur was captured, and most likely injured. Gil-galad had nearly wept as he saw the orcs dragging Isildur into one of the tents. It choked him to see the Man he cared for like a brother being treated like a filthy animal. And Boromir! Boromir, with a bloody cut on his arm, with a dazed expression on his face. Gil-galad had not known Boromir as long as he had known Isildur, but he cared for him all the same. It was the worst of tortures to have seen the two Men in such pitiful conditions.

The gates approached, and Gil-galad halted his horse, making sure that Boromir stayed seated. "Open the gates!" he shouted. His voice was so raspy and damaged by the ash he had inhaled that even he did not understand what he was saying. "Open the-" Suddenly, Gil-galad found that he was shouting, and no sound was coming from his mouth. Desperation made him impatient, and he was quite tempted to leap off his horse and rattle the gates, until a person's voice came from inside.

"Who are you?" the sharp voice asked. "What is your name?" Gil-galad valiantly tried to speak, but the ash clogged up his throat so much he could not. He sat there helplessly on his horse, balancing Boromir in front of him.

To his gladness, a familiar voice interrupted the first. "Open the gates, quickly!"

_Aragorn! _Gil-galad thought, relieved, as the gates were opened. He quickly drove his horse through the shining gates, hunched forward over Boromir's body protectively, vainly trying to keep himself on his mount. Gil-galad found himself surrounded by nearly a dozen guardsmen. Aragorn stood near them, his face both stern and concerned.

"What has happened?" he asked Gil-galad. "Where is Isildur?" Gil-galad tried to cough and enable himself to speak, and ended up getting more ash in his throat. His breaths came out as strained hisses. "Can you not speak?" Gil-galad shook his head, holding fast to the dead weight of Boromir. "Good Valar!" Aragorn exclaimed, examining Gil-galad's tired horse. "Your horse needs resting. I am afraid we must go on foot to the Citadel."

Gil-galad shook his head, his arms still wrapped around Boromir's unconscious body. He gave a mighty cough, and found his throat was a bit cleared. "No- no need to go to the Citadel," he rasped. Ash slid down his throat. "Boromir is- is in need of... of care immediately." It was a struggle to get words out. He attempted to swing himself down from his horse, but as he was still holding Boromir up, he found the action rather difficult to carry out. He ended up tumbling off the horse, holding tightly to his companion. Gil-galad landed on his feet in an awkward stagger, struggling to hold up Boromir. Fortunately, Aragorn rushed to his side and helped hold up Boromir's weight.

"Let us go to the stables," the King said. "There is medicine kept there, if we are in need of it." With a short nod, Gil-galad began walking forward, aiding Aragorn in holding up Boromir. The Man was still completely unconscious. When they arrived in the stables, Boromir was laid down carefully on a bed of hay away from the stalls of horses. His face was oddly peaceful, and he looked many years younger than he really was. He looked quite vulnerable, in Gil-galad's eyes, and Gil-galad felt rather protective of him, like a brother or a father would.

_I shall not let harm come to you, Boromir son of Denethor,_ he swore silently. _Never again._

Aragorn was not looking down at Boromir, though. He peered worriedly at Gil-galad. "What is wrong with your voice?" he asked.

"Ash," Gil-galad managed to choke out. An orc had tried to spear him, and he had hit the ground to duck the weapon- and fallen right into an old fire-circle. The Elf put a hand to his face. It came away grey and black. He imagined he must look ridiculous.

"I see," said Aragorn. His eyes scanned the room. "I believe there is water there," he said, pointing to the small one-roomed building attached to the stables. Gil-galad took one last look at Boromir and walked into the building. It was filled with remedies -undoubtedly for injured or sick horses- and a barrel of water sat in the corner of the room. Gil-galad eyed it doubtfully, for after all, it was sitting by a horse-filled stable. But the water appeared clear and fresh. Gil-galad found a wooden mug beside the barrel, so he dipped it into the water and drank deeply. It pained him greatly to swallow, but the water washed the ash out of his throat, and when he tried to speak, his voice only sounded slightly hoarse.

He walked back to the main stables to discover Aragorn kneeling beside the lying form of a conscious Boromir. The Man was stiffened in pain, and his face was quite pale. "They should not have- have gone after me..." he said through clenched teeth. His eyes were screwed shut. "What is this pain?" he moaned, his hands gripping the straw beneath him. "I feel as if I have been roasted over a fire and bled till I collapsed... I am only still dreaming? Could it be that I am still among the enemy?"

Gil-galad stepped forward quietly, and, on a sudden impulse, crouched and seized Boromir's battle-worn hand. "Peace, Boromir," he said, struggling to remain calm. "You are among friends."

"Gil-galad?" Boromir asked weakly. His eyes opened, and he stared up at his companion. Gil-galad thought that, for a second, Boromir looked like an injured child. "What happened? Where am I? Where is Isildur? Why do I feel so much pain?"

"Isildur and I left Minas Tirith to rescue you from the Blue Wizard and his orcs," said Gil-galad patiently. He felt a stab of mixed guilt and pain as he said, "I last saw Isildur being dragged away by the orcs. His horse had fallen, and he with it. He looked as if he could not run. The orcs caught up with him." Gil-galad swallowed hard. His throat felt clogged up still, but not by ash. "I know not where he is."

Boromir's face went even paler. "I was not worth rescuing," he said angrily. "You should not have came to the camp." His eyes were haunted as he stared up at Aragorn and Gil-galad.

"Nonsense, Boromir," said Gil-galad, shocked by Boromir's dismissal of his own worth. "I am angry of Isildur's capture, but I rejoice at the fact that you are safe."

"It was a failed rescue," Aragorn spoke up firmly, "but only in some aspects. Now, Boromir, where do you feel pain?"

Boromir's face was contorted in seeming agony. "My feet, I believe. Possibly my legs." Aragorn nodded, and began to unlace Boromir's worn boots. Boromir suddenly switched grips with Gil-galad, seizing the Elf's hand instead of Gil-galad gripping his. A pained hiss came from the small gaps between his teeth. Aragorn stopped and looked up, worry written on his face. Boromir saw this, and forced a blank look on his face. His breath came out unsteadily.

"Aragorn," Gil-galad said quietly, seeing the intense pain his friend was in, "his arm is wounded. Shall we tend to that, first? It is bleeding quite readily." He indicated the bleeding wound on Boromir's forearm. Aragorn studied it carefully.

"Yes, I believe that would be the best idea. Are there bandages in the next room?" he asked, pulling Boromir's sleeve up gently. Boromir closed his eyes tightly, as if the absence of sight would numb the pain.

"I know not," Gil-galad said. He attempted to rise, but found something was still anchoring him to the ground. "Boromir, will you kindly release my hand?" he asked. Boromir took in a gulp of air and removed his shaking fingers from Gil-galad's hand. The Elf stood and walked again to the adjoining room. Many wooden shelves lined the walls, and he saw a roll of clean, white bandages. They were quite large, as they were made to be used on horses, not Men, but Gil-galad supposed they would do. He spotted herbs that he recognized on one shelf, and took them with him, knowing that they might be used to staunch the bleeding. On his way out, he also found a healer's knife, and took it with him.

He walked back to the stables, setting down his findings. Aragorn, with a murmured "Thank you", cut a square of bandages from the roll and used it to mop up some of the blood on Boromir's arm. Boromir flinched, and gripped the folds of his cloak, holding them to numb away the pain. His hands were white, but his face was yet paler. He looked as if he could pass out at any second. Guilt attacked Gil-galad's mind. He felt terribly responsible for the whole mess they were in.

Aragorn picked up the knife, and looked pointedly at Gil-galad. "If you do not wish to look upon this particular practice of healing, I suggest you leave," he said, holding the knife over Boromir's arm. The son of Denethor saw it and went, if possible, even paler. Gil-galad did not know what Aragorn would attempt to do with the knife and Boromir's wounded arm, but he knew he did not wish to see it. He hesitated, though, as he looked at Boromir. _The blame is partially mine, for not going to rescue him earlier,_ he thought. _If I leave Boromir when he is in pain, I am certainly not atoning for my actions._

Perhaps Boromir saw the hesitant look on Gil-galad's face, because he spoke up. "Go if you wish to, Gil-galad," he said weakly. "I shall be fine."

Gil-galad gratefully walked out of the stables and into the street. He was not entirely surprised when he found himself not alone. Leaning against the outside stable wall, with a concerned look on his face, was Faramir the Steward. He looked as if he was attempting to listen to Aragorn and Boromir inside the stable. He did not move when Gil-galad approached him. The Elf stood there awkwardly for a moment. Finally, he mustered up a smile and gave his best calm, "Hello."

Faramir flinched and stiffened up, his sound right hand on the hilt of the sword on his belt. When he saw Gil-galad, he visibly relaxed, seeming to sink into the wall. "Good day, Gil-galad." He wore armor that reflected the dim sun. Gil-galad wondered if the Steward was planning on going into battle. It would certainly be a difficult endeavor without two of his fingers, but not an impossible one. "How fares Boromir?"

"He is in pain," Gil-galad admitted, seeing no reason to conceal the truth from Faramir. Faramir seemed to be quite a good Man, and Gil-galad sensed that he would be able to tell if he was hiding something. "Aragorn is currently tending a cut on his arm, and Boromir says that there is pain in his feet and legs. But Aragorn is a skilled healer," he added, wishing to convey a bit of optimism. "I believe he shall rec-"

He was interrupted by a cry of pain from inside the stables. Faramir paled, and Gil-galad felt another rush of guilt. He found his eyes drawn to Faramir's bandaged, mangled left hand. Actual bandaging had been applied to it, replacing the torn-up bedsheets that Gil-galad and Aragorn had bandaged it with immediately following Faramir's injury. Faramir's hand looked quite empty somehow, missing his ring and little fingers, and Gil-galad pitied Faramir with all of his heart.

Faramir gave a sigh. "If only I could enter," he said wistfully, staring off into the distance at something Gil-galad could not see.

"You can," Gil-galad said. "If you are strong-stomached enough to witness the healing, that is."

The Steward looked sideways at the Elf, as if sizing him up. "Physically, I am able to enter, yes," he said. "But, yet again, I was not there for my brother when he needed help most. Entering the stables would make me feel yet more guilt for that."

Gil-galad understood painfully. "I feel the same guilt," he said, "though I can understand why you might feel it more. But I am sure Boromir would not have wanted you to ride to his rescue. He did not wish for Isildur and I to do so. Certainly he would not his brother to." Gil-galad felt the words pouring out his mouth uncontrollably, as an impulse. "He cares for you very much. The whole journey to Minas Tirith, he talked of you with pride in his voice. He would not wish for you to willingly ride to danger on his behalf. I am sure he does not find fault in you for not going to the Blue Wizard's encampment."

He felt as if he had said too much, and for a second Faramir looked almost close to weeping. But then Faramir gave a small smile and said, "You are right. Though I believe I shall stay out here until Aragorn is finished healing the wound on his arm. It sounds to be quite a painful process."

"That is why I am here," said Gil-galad, returning the Steward's smile. "If the truth shall be told, I had not seen or healed wounds such as that since your hand was injured. And before that... not since the siege of Barad-dur have I used my skill of healing." Faramir nodded, and did not speak. Gil-galad, frankly, was rather glad of that.

When he did speak, it was because another cry of pain had began to sound in the stables. Perhaps Faramir wished to drown it out, because he asked, "Shall you attempt to rescue Isildur before the start of the battle?"

Gil-galad had not considered doing so. He thought for a moment before responding, "I believe not. One failed rescue is enough for a day."

Faramir smiled slightly. "Perhaps leading a band of soldiers to the camp whilst the battle rages shall suffice," he said. "I know many men that would follow me there."

"I should like to ride with them," said Gil-galad instinctively. Faramir looked closely and approvingly at him again.

"That will be most welcome," said the Steward with a grim smile. He held out his sound hand. Gil-galad took it, and they shook hands, sealing their alliance. "Together, we shall lead yet another rescue mission. May it have more luck than the last!"

* * *

"Look upon him!"

"The mighty King of Men!"

"Son of Elendil!"

"A leader of his kind!"

Isildur's ears rang with the orcs' sarcastic words, and he bit back a scowl. His eyes were shut tightly. _You shall not look upon them. You shall not bear witness to your own defiling and dishonoring, _he told himself. His breathing was unsteady and shaking. The rough bark of the tree stuck like spear-points into his chest. Something vile was thrown at his back, and he flinched as the sickening aroma reached his nose. An object that felt like a stone struck his leg.

"Why does he not scream?" said a frustrated orc's voice.

"Stubborn, this one is," said another. Something hot and searing was held close to Isildur's arm- a torch. _You shall not cry out, you shall not cry out...  
_

"Ah, but of course he's stubborn!" The torch was moved away from his arm. Laughter sounded through the gathering of orcs that were watching their prisoner. "He's no mere Man! This here is Isildur son of Elendil, a Numenorean King!" Something hit the back of his neck, and Isildur forced himself not to let a curse fly from his mouth. "King of the dung hill, more like it!" More laughter sounded, and Isildur felt his temper come dangerously close to boiling over. "And the son of a haughty bastard."

Isildur could not stand it any longer. He thrashed against the bonds that held him to the tree, instinct urging him to snap the neck of whatever orc had said such terrible words about his father. The orcs laughed at that. Isildur kept his eyes shut. It was torture enough without looking at their cruel faces.

"I believe the stubborn fool's earned himself a few lashings!" said an orc gleefully. Isildur went limp against his bindings, frustrated. _Excellent, _he told himself, _you merely have earned yourself even more pain. _His hose was yanked down, his lower legs bare. Isildur felt his ears turn red at the dishonor of it all.

A whip smacked Isildur's calves. He counted the lashes, trying to give himself something to distract him from the white-hot pain. Five, ten, fifteen lashes hit him, and suddenly, the whipping stopped. Blood trickled sluggishly down his legs, and Isildur let a sigh of relief come from his mouth. The lashes started again. The orc that was whipping him had heard his sigh, and was undoubtedly hoping to make him scream for mercy.

After countless lashes, Isildur knew that the whipping would not stop until he made some sound of pain. He felt all the dignity that he retained crumbling away, and he opened his mouth and screamed against the abrasive tree bark, tears of pain stinging his eyes.

_Where are you? _he could not help but thinking as the orcs shouted for him to scream louder. _My friends, why have you left me here?_ He screamed louder, a desolate, lonely yell of anger, sadness, and pain. _Where are you?! _Suddenly, he resented Gil-galad for not turning and aiding him, even though he himself had told his friend to ride off. _Help me! _It took all of Isildur's willpower to keep him from screaming the words aloud.

"Another few lashes!" snarled an orc. "He's not crying yet! And we can't hear what he's screaming! I want to hear him cry for our mercy!"

Before the whip could hit his legs again, Isildur began to sob, heaving his shoulders to the point of exaggeration, tears trickling down his face and staining the bark of the tree. His screaming formed words, and even he was surprised by what they were: "Father!" he howled. "Father!"

The orcs laughed. Isildur's heart, pride, and body ached, but he kept calling out for his long-dead father. When the orcs got sick of the sound of that word and started to whip his legs again, Isildur called out for his companions and his heir until he could scream no longer.

_Where are you?_


End file.
